


Waking to the Warmth of You

by SoftRegard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Background Relationships, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Romance, Sexual Content, Verse 2 Compliant, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftRegard/pseuds/SoftRegard
Summary: In the quiet aftermath of a war hard-won, Noctis finds the balm to his weary heart in a most unexpected and treasured place.Verse 2: Falling in love in a world rebuilding.





	1. Chapter One - Reconstruction

It comes slowly, like it used to; a gentle bloom of gold before the warm blaze of orange that crests along the clouds. The light floods through the wreckage of the throne room, sparkling off the chains binding the crystal, the gold of the throne, the sharp edge of their weapons. So much light, so much of the world they forgot existed - right before their weary, aching eyes.

The first dawn in ten years. It’s beautiful enough to hurt. 

With a shaking hand, Prompto wipes tears from eyes and doesn’t bother trying to hide it. He murmurs to himself, “finally, finally” and his shoulders quiver so hard the leather of his uniform creaks. At his side is Gladio, whose sword vanishes from his hand as he drops to one knee, exhaustion and elation making his legs tremble, though his mouth splits into a wide grin. 

Ravus goes still, like a gleaming white statue, eyes fixed on the glowing sky with breathless reverence. 

Near the throne, Noctis barely stands, his arm slung over Ignis’ shaking shoulders as they catch their breath and take in their victory. 

“We did it…” Noctis whispers, thinking he might just die from happiness. “It’s finally over.”

 

*

 

They begin reconstruction immediately. 

The first weeks had been brimming with restless energy, for everyone. Watching people flood back into the city was an incredible sight, a balm to weary hearts. As the rubble began to clear, and the lights began to flicker again with life, the vision of Insomnia was more and more becoming the splendor it was before the fall. 

No one dares to mention the conspicuously smaller population, lest the mood be ruined.

The months go by fast, and living in the sun again becomes a welcome routine. 

There are celebrations for the babies born in the city during reconstruction - the first bursts of life in the new world; many parents name their children Noctis, in honour of the Saviour to the Star. Prompto teases the new king about it constantly, and sometimes still gets a bashful blush for his efforts. Noctis is learning to take the attention in stride, but a part of him feels like it’s always going to be just a little bit awkward - standing amidst the praise, the joyous reverence. The world knows him as the King of Light, but some days he still feels like the sleepy kid staring up at the stars on the road to his wedding. 

Many of the civilians insist on getting to work on the repairing the Citadel, but Noctis always begs off and moves their attention elsewhere; the Citadel can wait, as it always has. There’s no use for the castle or a throne room when so much of the nation is still in ruins. Most days, he doesn’t even bother with his raiments, choosing to go out in rolled up shirtsleeves and work pants to heft blocks of concrete off the roads or install electricity. The folks in construction stop stammering around him after the first few weeks.

It starts after one of these expeditions into the guts of the city’s underground railway, clearing out debris. Noctis is one his way to a shower when he hears the first of it - talk of the future,  _ his  _ future:

“Now that we’ve started to settle, Your Majesty,” says Monica, on the way to do her laundry. “You’re going to be expected to think about marriage soon.”

Noctis nearly drops his clothes, “W-what?”

“Apologies,” she says though her mouth quirks into a small, amused smile. This woman has been in his life since he was a baby, and no amount of status or prestige is going to shake her image of him with chocolate pudding all over his chubby little cheeks. “But reconstruction also extends to  _ protocol _ , you see, and people are beginning to wonder about the family line...haven’t you thought about it?”

He looks down at the bundle of clothes and toiletries in his arms and realizes, no, he hasn’t given it much thought - there had just been no time.

_ Guess the last time I was in any talks about marriage was...ten years ago _ . He thinks to himself, a touch morose.

Noctis’ time in the crystal had given him insight into so many things - the laws of the natural order, the way of the gods, the path before him and the path behind. Reflection had been an incredible, incandescent thing; he hasn’t been able to describe it with any skill to anyone who has asked, and he’s tried. It gave him much, much more than he could ever say. 

But it didn’t give him a sense of time, of its passing.

Luna’s death still feels painfully recent, a fresh wound that has only begun to close and itch in its healing. A few weeks into reconstruction Noctis took a few weeks off to travel back to Altissia, where her body was interred. The grave was built onto a stone platform in the middle of Leviathan’s resting place, symbolically guarded by the Tidemother as a sign of her hard-won - but now absolute and eternal - regard for the fallen Oracle. He had knelt upon the stone floor, fingers tracing the silver and black plaque that bore Luna’s name:

 

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret 

M.E. 756

Oracle to the Chosen King

She Who Spoke the Rite,

Bringer of Peace, Love, and Light

 

He had wept that day, soundlessly, but with all the anguish he hadn’t had the time to feel during the last legs of the journey. The wind that rippled the water around him had smelled of sylleblossoms, and he knew that his sorrows were heard. 

Noctis is still in mourning, this he knows - but for the rest of the world, it’s been ten years. It isn’t something he can explain, and even if he could he’s not sure he would want to. For him, everything still feels...private. Raw.  

It doesn’t seem right, thinking about marriage when the memory of her still feels so vivid. He doesn’t say as much to Monica, of course. 

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he says instead, shuffling awkwardly on his feet - some of the old members of his father’s council would’ve looked at him in disapproval for it. But these are different times. “Everything’s been so hectic.” 

“True,” she nods, and seems to take it. “And I guess it wouldn’t do to talk of weddings when half the city is still in such disarray…”

She sighs. 

“Yeah,” he grins at her. “And hey, I’m not so old that it’s getting dire yet, right? I’ve got lots of time. The young people say 30 is the new 20, y’know.” 

“Tsk,” she shakes her head at him, indulgent. “I just know quite a few people who’d like to see some babies run these halls again.” 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, turning back toward the showers. The ones in the royal quarters stopped working sometime during his absence, and so he uses the ones in the servant’s quarters in the meantime. “Cross my heart.”

“And hope to die? Certainly not, we’ve had enough scares for a lifetime, Your Majesty.” 

They both laugh; it’s a little macabre, but they’ve all earned that right. 

 

*

 

In the crystal, Noctis had seen glimpses of things that were out place - ill-fitting puzzle pieces that floated just out of reach when he wanted to come closer. He hadn’t given them much thought at the time, swept up by everything Reflection demanded he know. In the quiet of the living realm, however, away from the ephemeral abyss of the crystal, he has the time and the presence of mind to think about it. Some of the things he saw didn’t make sense with the world he woke up into - it was as though they were flashes of possibilities, ones that were abandoned by the choices he and his friends made. 

Among them, one was persistent: Ignis, eyes milky white in the casing of his ruined face, and Noctis, run through with his father’s sword. He shudders whenever he thinks of it, sometimes reaches up to rub at the center of his chest, just to remind himself the flesh is intact.   

Sometimes he catches himself watching Ignis when he’s turned away, expecting to see something that isn’t there; sightless, pale eyes or a painful scar spread out on the sharp crest of his cheekbone. It’s a relief, every time, when Ignis notices him watching and gives him a quizzical look in turn - eyes that same bright green they’ve always been, always so sharp and quick. Usually, Noctis just shrugs in response and brushes it off like he’s been spacing out. Not that he does much of that these days, always pulled to one thing or another. Getting lost in daydreams isn’t the luxury of kings.  

This time though, he’s hit with an impulse that he gives in to - reaches out and clamps his hand firmly on Ignis’ shoulder, feeling something like whimsy flutter around in his chest, grazing the cage of his ribs. Ignis’ face is the same as usual, with only the barest of small scars, the lines of him - the planes of his temples, the tall bridge of his nose, the sharp slash of his jawline - highlighted by glow of the fireplace. 

“Noct?”

Ignis had made an attempt to stick with proper titles after his coronation, but thankfully buckled under Noctis putting the pressure on him to keep things the  _ same _ . They’d reached a compromise - a certain number of people in the room and it was always going to be “Your Majesty”; Gladio and Prompto didn’t count, that they could agree on.  

“Just had a thought,” he murmurs, squeezing Ignis’ shoulder and taking comfort in how solid it feels - like this wasn’t just some sort of fever dream he’s been living for months, a cruel illusion. Sometimes he needs to remind himself, and the relief of it is so devastating each time. So much could have been lost, so much at stake on the altar of human choices. “Sorry, I’m being weird again, huh?”

“Never,” says Ignis, putting his book down. The cover says, “Lost in Lestallum: A Memoir by Septima Dion”; one of Gladio’s romance novels, it looks like. He slots his hand on top of Noctis’ in a comforting, anchoring grip. The leather of his gloves are warm, and creaks in the quiet of the office. “Well, perhaps just a touch.” 

For someone so prim, Ignis’ smile could look quite impish when he wanted it to. Noctis chuckles, and drops his hand, resting it on the arm of Ignis’ chair instead. The backs of his fingers are still warm. 

“I just...I never really talked about Reflection, did I?”

“Only a summary,” Ignis turns in his seat to look at him fully, hands settled on his lap. His interest in plain on his face. “I was under the impression it was difficult to speak of.”

“Yeah,” he takes a breath, and takes to twiddling his thumbs. “I think I’m ready to talk about it now, though. If you’re up to hearing about it.”

“Always.”

So he tells Ignis about it - the things he saw. What he could understand of it. Magical flashes of cosmic possibilites are harder to form into words than he anticipated, and he never quite had Ignis’ gift for words. He tries though, telling Ignis of a time and a place where he’s blinded in the line of duty, and where Noctis dies alone with only ghosts for company, pinned like a butterfly to the seat of his ancestors; he doesn’t mention who it is that finds him that way, whose heart it shatters to do so. Judging by the pained flutter of Ignis’ eyelashes as he looks away, Noctis figures that his friend has guessed. 

“The sound of it alone is...painful,” he says, quiet. Even somber, his voice is no less rich. “I could not imagine bearing it firsthand; I’m sorry you had to do it alone, Noct.”

“It’s okay,” Noctis leans back in his chair and sighs, feeling lighter for having shared the load. “It was rough at first, but...it’s nice being reminded that things didn’t turn out that way…”

He absently passes the backs of his fingers against his beard, a habit he never imagined would be one of the ones he would pick up from his father. Of course, his younger self had terrible difficulty growing one in the first place - Prompto had as well, and they teased each other endlessly about it. 

Considering the both of them these days, Noctis likes to think he came out the winner.

“Some days though, I just need a little more reminding than usual. Sometimes this all just...feels like a dream. Like something I made up to keep from going crazy.”

“Today is one of those days, I take it.” 

“Yeah.”

Ignis pauses to think on it, his irises flitting back and forth between nothing as his mind worked. It doesn’t take him long - nothing ever does. He picks up his book and says: “I can read to you, if you like.”

When he was a schoolboy, still learning read and write, Ignis used to help him by reading books aloud and having Noctis follow along. They would sit huddled by the light of one of Noctis’ bedroom windows, and Noctis would trail his fingertip over the words while Ignis would sound them out. There had been real tutors, of course, adult ones with expertise and training - but Ignis had always been easier to talk to, been more fun to practice with.

It’s been years since they’ve done it, and Noctis feels a surge of nostalgia.

“I’d like that.” 

They move from the stiff-backed chairs onto the couch and Ignis doesn’t even scold him for bracing his foot up on the cushion with his shoes still on. Noctis trails his eyes along the words as Ignis recites them, ears honed to the curves of his friend’s lush accent. They’re not little kids anymore, but it feels homey and familiar and it’s just what Noctis needs in that moment. Slowly, he feels the little flyaway fears fade into the background.  

Ignis does not stop reading, even after Noctis falls asleep on his shoulder.

 

*

 

There’s a surge in demand for psychologists during the reconstruction, to aid the people who haven’t managed to adjust to the daylight again, or children born during the “decade of darkness” - as many were starting to call it - who couldn’t get used to the sun. Some folks took the change especially badly, hiding out in their rooms with the curtains drawn, either living in disbelief that that the sun had returned to the world or too shaken by the abrupt change to acclimatize properly.  

Prompto tells him of one such woman, still holed up in Lestallum even months after the first dawn.

“I’ve been checking in on her from time to time,” he says, flipping through a folder of photographs for Noctis to see: grassy fields, rocky canyons, city vistas - all bathed in daylight. “Bringing her sunny pictures seems to be helping - I think doc says she’ll warm up to stepping outside pretty soon, if this keeps up. The last batch had a picture of her sister outside at noon, so I think she’s finally starting to come around.”

It’s a use for Prompto’s photography that no one expected, but they’re all glad for it - Prompto especially. He’s one of the most compassionate people that Noctis knows, and his success at this new venture comes as no surprise. 

“Never thought my snaps could be good for therapy!” he’d said once, after sending in photos to a patient at one of Insomnia’s working hospitals, who hadn’t believed that his son was still alive. 

“That’s a relief,” says Noctis, plucking out a particularly well-composed shot of volunteers doing construction in downtown Insomnia. “I hope she gets well soon.”

There had been one benefit to being inside the crystal - and that was being shielded from the horrors of living through the eternal night. Every day, he sees faces so haunted that it makes his heart ache - some far too young to have experienced that much fear. 

“Me too,” Prompto says, grinning as he pulls another photo out from the bottom of the pile. “This one...really helped her, as well.”

It’s a candid of Noctis standing by this throne, almost glowing from the light streaming from the enormous hole in the wall; he’s still in his raiments, still covered in dirt with small rips in his clothing. He’s looking to the side, out toward the city through the wreckage. He doesn’t remember it being taken, too immersed in the moment, taking in their hard-won victory.

Noctis doesn’t know what to say, staring at this photo of him looking so very much like a king. 

“You know some of the guys down in the mines have your photo up in their barracks?” asks Prompto, grinning at him. “They touch it for luck so the ceiling doesn’t cave on ‘em when they’re down there.” 

“Wow, I -”

“Get used to it  _ Your Majesty _ ,” Prompto throws an arm over his shoulders, bright with joy and pride. “The people really, really love you.”

“Oh, stop.” Noctis elbows him lightly in the stomach, face warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic explores the idea the Noctis didn't get to experience the passage of time organically, trapped in the crystal as he was, and so the events (and traumas) of the game are still relatively fresh for him. Moreover, the crystal gave him insight into other timelines, which I imagine would be a lot for a mortal mind to handle. 
> 
> I really just wrote this fic because I wanted to explore 30's Noctis and Ignis falling in love in our CANON AU THAT WE'VE BEEN GIFTED, so despite the implication of angst and psychological stuff that comes from what I've outline above, this will actually be pretty light :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter Two - To New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A time to relax, and toast to new beginnings! The boys get some drinks, and talk about the future.

The dust begins to settle, and the people of the world adjust to the rhythm of regular, everyday life - free from rampaging daemons or the threat of war on the horizon. No one alive remembers a time without either, and the novelty of it seemingly invigorates all of Lucis: the nightlife of Insomnia takes off, and people are eager to set out to work in the mornings. Schools begin to open, and during the hours when children stream from their playgrounds in excitement one can often see tearful adults watching them from the streets - grateful for the normalcy they’d thought gone forever.  

With reconstruction winding down, urgent work turns into normal work, and Noctis finally begins to allow himself the occasional time off. He meets with the others as often as he can, catches up on their lives. Tonight, he gets a text from Gladio about meeting up for something personal and important, so he clears his schedule immediately.

The four of them meet up at a bar and, it turns out that Gladio wants to introduce them to his girlfriend-turned-fiancée (and _that_ is news to all of them). The woman who walks through the door is strikingly familiar.

“Dr. Yeager!” Noctis doesn’t quite sputter, but it’s close.

She laughs, hands sliding from the pockets of her sharp blazer to clasp his. She’s clearly still dressed from work - with a crisp teal blouse under her grey blazer, and tailored dress pants to match. The ring on her finger is a finely woven knot of Lucian white gold; practical, yet elegant. Noctis tells himself to tease Gladio on his eye for great jewellery later. “Glad to see you remember me, your majesty.”

“How could I forget?” Noctis grins and pulls out a chair for her. “Frog slime is really hard to clean out of clothes, y’know.”

“Funny you would know that,” mutters Ignis, giving him a sidelong glance as he takes his seat next to Noctis. “Considering the washing all fell to me.”

“Anyway it’s awesome to finally meet you er- meet you again,” Prompto surges in and shakes her hand, looking every bit as guilty as Noctis does. Neither of them look at Ignis. “And congrats - wow, I can’t believe the big guy’s gonna settle down. How’d he pop the question?!”

“Trade secret,” says Gladio, coming back to their table with a pitcher and several glasses. Like a gentleman, he hands Sania the first glass, the presence of the king be damned. “Guy’s gotta have some tricks up his sleeve.”

“Oh come on, don’t be that way,” whines Prompto. “This a time for celebration - and with celebration, _juicy details_!”

Their table is near the very front of the pub, by a large window looking out into a brightly lit downtown street; the place itself is bustling, and many of the other patrons glance their way in fascination at the presence of the local war heroes and their king. The relief of things being back to normal meant a big boom for nightlife - there is no end to people who want to dance their cares away and celebrate being alive. Noctis likes the Galahdan places best, the energy and the lack of pretension is exactly what he needs on the longer days, when the stuffiness of the palace sometimes gets to him.

Gladio pours his cup - Galahdi pale ale, imported from the newly restored region - holding it at the proper angle and getting the nice topping of foam that Noctis has never quite managed to master. They all clink cups and toast to new beginnings.

“So what are you working on these days, Dr. Yeager?” asks Ignis, leaning forward in interest. The little charm he wears around his neck pops out of his collar, twinkling despite the pub’s dim lighting. “With the scourge eradicated, I presume your previous research has been halted? Taken in a new direction?”

“Oh, not quite,” she adjusts her glasses, eyes taking on the gleam of all scholars excited to talk about their work. “I’m currently researching the rate of scourge-recovery in plant cells and animal tissue - specifically, I want to examine the effects of sunlight on recovery, and what the rate of recovery is for plant and animal life in areas with minimal solar exposure.”

She and Ignis get into an intense discussion about solar rays and organic tissue degradation, and the other three leave them to their devices.

“You always did like the brainy ones,” Noctis murmurs slyly, grinning at Gladio, whose face is soft with pride. “ _And_ older women.”

“What can I say,” Gladio leans over to pop a small kiss on Sania’s temple, though she doesn’t seem to notice and continues talking about her research methodology for her second doctorate; Ignis is riveted. “Been chasing this one since before Altissia.”

“Wait, seriously?!” Prompto nearly knocks over his drink. “How come we never knew?”

“You never asked,” Gladio waves the server for another pitcher. “And not all of us moon over girls all day, y’know. Gotta have some chill.”

“Speaking of chill,” Noctis turns to Prompto and raises his brow. “How’s Cindy?”

Prompto leans back in his chair and sighs dramatically, “My friends, my _king_ \- all so cruel to me.”

They laugh, and the server comes back with another pitcher, a plate of spiced meat on skewers, fries, and what looks to be sticks of fried cheese. They eat, drink, exchange news on the remaining reconstruction efforts: Prompto updates them on an organization he’s helping develop to combat post-traumatic stress from the decade of darkness, using the arts as an outlet. He’s meeting a ton of icons from the wider Lucian and Accordan arts community by doing it, and his excitement is palpable. Gladio apprises them on the current state of the newly rebuilt Kingsglaive, his work with Cor and the veterans in training recruits, and minimizing the presence of bandits and gangs taking advantage of the chaos of reconstruction. It’s a tougher job than most, and Gladio looks so weary Sania reaches up to massage the back of his neck.

The two of them look happy, and Noctis takes the moment to bask in the joy he feels for his friends. During the harder, more fraught parts of their journey, it had been difficult to imagine coming out to the other side. And yet here they were, talking marriage and plans for the future - Noctis thinks he might just burst if they end up having kids.

“What about you, Ignis?” asks Gladio, plopping his empty skewer stick back onto the plate. “Last I checked you were vetting new council members. That still going on?”

Unlike Gladio or Prompto, Ignis worked very closely with Noctis at the Citadel, handling more than his fair share of the high council duties while they scoured the nation for candidates to join the new leadership and high command.

“More or less,” Ignis responds, scribbling down recipe ideas in his little notebook; looking over, Noctis can see that he’s made a list of Galahdan spices and has underlined a few of them twice. “There’s an excellent candidate from Niflheim, who oversaw refugee relocation during the all chaos. His credentials are impressive. Though we’re running into some difficulty with select members of the current council due to his nationality.”

Which wouldn’t do, of course. None of them wanted Noctis’ reign to be stained by the same old tribalism that ruined so much of the land. And Niflheim had been hit even worse than Lucis had, though most didn’t know it at the time due to severed communications and mayhem. The death of the emperor and most of the leadership had left the empire in complete disarray even before the eternal night, and _their_ reconstruction effort did not have a king at the helm to smooth the way. The envoy Noctis had sent over had been gratefully received, and they were in the midst of ongoing talks to fully, officially dissolve the war and get on with opening trade routes again.

“Mm,” Sania picks a fry off of Gladio’s plate. “That’s going to be difficult. Some folks find hanging onto old prejudices gets them through periods of strong change.”

“Truly,” Ignis sighs and takes a drink. “They’ve been remarkably obstinate, even knowing the king’s own thoughts on such things. It’s a matter of time of course, they’ll see reason or they’ll see the door.”

“ _Woo_ , frosty.” Prompto makes a show of shivering. “I’d hate to be the guys that get on Iggy’s mean side.”

“Yeah,” Noctis nudges Ignis’ foot playfully under the table. “Just make sure you hide the bodies, okay? Can’t scare off the new board _too_ soon.”

“I make no promises.”

They have a laugh, and Prompto asks Gladio and Sania when the wedding is. Neither of them really have plans for it yet, they say, choosing to take things as they come - there’s still too much work to be done to be able to take on the stress of wedding preparations, and neither of them are wedding-crazy. Gladio’s easy contentment as he talks about it makes Noctis’ heart warm.  

“‘Sides, Iris will jump at the chance to handle things.” Gladio shrugs, grinning into his cup.

“Speaking of romance,” Sania turns to Ignis, peering at him over the rim of her glasses. “How’re things with you? Any special lady in your life? Special man?”

All eyes at the table zero in on Ignis with intensity. Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio don’t tend to ask Ignis about that kind of thing despite their curiosity, aware of his personal bubble being a little wider than more than most. But Sania was new, and a woman, and if anyone could get something out of him it would probably be her.

“Oh dear,” Ignis says, dry. “Would you look at the time.”

“Oh come now,” she smiles, and it’s got an teasing edge despite her generally kind demeanor; Noctis sees why Gladio likes her. “I may not be into the community gossip like most people, but it probably hasn’t escaped you that you’re one of the most eligible bachelors of the new age. A lot of my cohort at the department talk about you constantly.”

“Wha-!” Prompto looks affronted: “What about me? They say anything about me?”

She laughs but doesn’t respond, and Prompto deflates with a theatrical throw of arms.

“I’ve been told, yes,” Ignis remarks, one of his long, elegant fingers tracing little lines into the condensation coating his glass. “But there’s little time in my life for romance, I’m afraid.”

“If you need some time to get out in the town and loosen up, just say the word Iggy,” Noctis places a hand at his back, and resists the urge to rub at the little bumps of his spine. “I mean it - if anyone deserves a break, it’s you.”

He’d like to see Ignis taken care of, with someone to come home to. He takes his friend in, from the sharp lines of his jacket and casual jeans to the artfully open collar of his deep violet dress shirt. He’s even wearing a fashionable, and sophisticated-looking wristwatch - the same Lucian white gold as Sania’s ring. Ignis, as always, looks like he’s walked off the runway even when he’s dressing down.

He’s handsome, smart, well-dressed, and a damn war hero. Everyday, Noctis is in disbelief that no one has snatched him up yet.

“The thought is appreciated,” says Ignis, giving him a small smile. “But I’m fine; I enjoy my work, and my heart is fulfilled by it.”  

Noctis smiles back, cheeks warm.

 

*

 

He has a bad dream one night, of a great blue abyss and shimmering ghosts of the past bursting through his skin. So he goes to Ignis for company.

“I must...confess something,” Ignis says, stirring honey into Noctis’ cup of tea. He taps the little spoon twice against the rim; _clink clink_. “Concerning your visions during Reflection.”

Noctis is intrigued, takes the mug from him with a nod of thanks. The warmth against palms is a welcome sensation, even with the fireplace already going. He was never fond of tea before, finding it only slightly more bearable than coffee, but these days he’s growing a taste for it; Iris jokingly told him it was because he was getting “old and boring”.  

“When I wore the ring of the Lucii,” he starts, and Noctis barely manages to hold back his flinch at the memory; the sight of Ignis’ body crumpled on the ruined ground of Zegnautus will stay with him as long as he lives, he’s sure. “I faced a series of similar visions…”

It’s a surprise, and Noctis’ brows jump. Ignis stalls his response with a hand, and continues, “Not nearly to the extent that you experienced inside the crystal, and not so clear, I’m afraid. Just impressions of something that had seemed...inevitable. I saw your passing on the throne, and little else.”

When Noctis had returned from his sleep, the four of them had managed to catch up. Ignis had told him the bare bones of what went down with Ardyn, had quickly glossed over the specifics after he put on the ring. It had been painful to hear then, still was, but Ignis had been adamant that a decade was more than enough time to move on from it. He spoke of it in the way of all old memories, even the difficult ones, with a serenity that only came with time.

“ _I’d do it again_ ,” he had said, so resolute that Noctis’ heart nearly broke. “ _Without question_.”

It’s the same way Ignis speaks now, sharing this tiny detail that shakes the earth under Noctis’ feet. His turmoil must show on his face, because Ignis kneels down in front of his chair, his hands coming up to clasp Noctis’.

“I knew that no matter what I did, so long as what I saw would not come to pass, I would gladly give up my life,” he says, ever so serious, so earnest. “So I made my choice.”

“Ignis,” privately, Noctis feels proud of how his voice doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see that.”

He shakes his head, some of his hair falling against his brow: “I’m not. It was painful, of course…”

Ignis takes a breath and grips Noctis’ hands tighter in his. The green of his eyes blaze against the firelight as he murmurs, “it gave me what I needed to save you. That is worth any price.”   


	3. Chapter Three - Cinnamon and Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life can bring the unexpected, as Prompto has found out. Noctis and Ignis make some pie, and gossip like old maids.

A few months after Gladio’s engagement announcement, Noctis sends an envoy to Tenebrae. This time, Prompto volunteers to take part.

“I’d like to take some photos of the reconstruction efforts there,” he’d said, fiddling with his camera - a new one, gifted to him from one of his new friends in the arts community. “And Ravus would probs like to see a friendly face, y’know?”

Noctis had heartily agreed.

These days, Ravus’ reputation is still on shaky ground despite his contributions to their victory. Many only know of him as the angry high commander of Niflheim’s army, said to have betrayed the Lucian royal lines more than once. It’s a stain that may remain until the day he dies.

As the last of the Nox Fleuret family, he’s nominally in charge of Tenebrae now that Niflheim has officially released the country from their control. They’ve all heard though, how much of Tenebrae’s populace continues to resist his leadership. In the early days of reconstruction, Noctis had offered to lend some diplomatic assistance, wanting desperately to smooth the way for him, but Ravus had begged off.

“Their scorn for me is earned,” he’d said, lips a thin slash across his tired face. Noctis can still remember his expression, the dark hollows underneath his eyes. “And I am willing to make amends to my people for the rest of my life, if it comes to that.”

That had been that.

Noctis isn’t sure if he and Ravus will ever truly manage to see eye-to-eye, despite being on the same side - despite all that he owes to the man for his service at the end of the war. After some introspection, Noctis thinks he might even understand a little bit, where Ravus’ discomfort with him comes from. It all came back to Luna, didn’t it? He was her brother - and her fate had been tied to a boy whose destiny would bring her so much suffering, only to end at an early grave. Luna had been dealt an unfair hand, and Ravus is the only person on Eos who truly witnessed how much...more than even Noctis.

Noctis can begrudge him that bitterness, as much as the distance between them will always pain him.  

When Prompto comes back from the trip, he learns more about Ravus than he’d ever imagined he would.

“Hey Noct,” says Prompto, his voice tinny through the phone. He sounds breathless. “Think you can pencil me in sometime today? I kind of wanna run something by you...if you’re not busy.”

“Of course,” he responds, flipping a folder closed; permits for more trade routes to Galahd - it can wait. He’d lost enough time with his friends during his sleep, he’s not going to give up more. “Want to meet somewhere?”

“Nah, I’m in the neighborhood,” Prompto sounds relieved. “I’ll come by the Citadel - can we say, the gardens on the roof?”

“Sure thing.”

 

*

 

The gardens had been Monica’s idea - an attempt to add a little greenery to the concrete jungle of Insomnia. Previously, the roof on the Eastern tower had been a patio to host dignitaries, a perfect place to show off the view of the jewel of Lucis. Noctis isn’t the type for showboating, everyone knows it - and it was agreed that the politics and the public relations could take a backseat in the face of what Noctis actually managed to accomplish. No one would begrudge the new king for defying _some_ conventions. So, a garden had been been installed, a place for people who worked in the Citadel to escape - Noctis especially.

He loves it. It’s a nice touch of life amidst all the grey.

Travelling with his friends had shown him how much he enjoyed being around nature. With his duties to the kingdom now, he doesn’t get to leave as much as he would like.

Birds liked to gather up here, and someone had installed a flower patch for sylleblossoms. Often, he plucks them to take to Luna’s memorial in the Citadel; there is always a fresh bouquet of them in front of her portrait.  

“Hey.”

Prompto is already there, sitting on one of stone benches, taking photos of a blooming white flower with a bee at its center.

“Nice to see you back,” Noctis grins, watching the bee scuttle around on the a trembling petal. “Didn’t need to recharge first?”

“Nah - slept like a rock on the train back…” Prompto deletes a picture, brows pinched.

“What’d you want to talk about?” asks Noctis as he sits beside him. He’s changed out of his raiments, never liking to stay in them unless he really needs to. A breeze brushes against his bare forearms.

Prompto shifts in his seat, settling the camera on his lap and dancing his fingers over the casing nervously; he’s not looking at Noctis at all, worrying the corner of his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Hey,” says Noctis, voice as soft as he can make it. “You know whatever it is, you can tell me, right?”

“Yeah,” Prompto sighs and visibly steels himself. “I know - it’s just...wow, now that I’m actually here and have to say it out loud, it seems kind of stupid.”

“It’s important to you,” Noctis leans back against the bench, pulling his eyes away to give Prompto less pressure. “It isn’t stupid - take your time.”

They both watch a bird land near the edge of a patch of Accordan ice violets, letting the silence settle so that Prompto can shed his nerves. It’s a beautiful day outside, barely any clouds, and with just enough wind so it isn’t hot. This high up, it’s hard to hear too much of the city life, and the quiet brings peace with it. It’s a good place to think - sometimes, it’s easy to forget the pressures of their jobs up here.

“So,” Prompto begins, taking another breath. “I went to Tenebrae, yeah? Three weeks - I think you’ll get the report sometime tomorrow.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And like,” Prompto’s foot sways up and down, pushing tiny, loose pieces of concrete around in the cracks of the floor. “It was great. I really liked it - man, I never knew Tenebrae was so _beautiful_ ; I’ll show you some pics of how restoration’s been going there, they’ve really been making killer progress…”

Noctis watches Prompto’s profile from the corner of his eye, taking in his eyes flicking nervously from one point to another and his jaw working as he worries his lip. Prompto never did hide his distress very well.

“And while I was there, I spent a lot of time with Ravus, y’know?” Prompto abandons fiddling with his camera to clasp his own fingers together, keeping them from tapping. He pauses, and when he continues, it’s halting: “A... _lot_ of time...”

“Wait,” Noctis thinks he finally gets it because the meaning crashes into him like a sack of bricks. By the Six, was he not expecting _that_. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That depends,” says Prompto, voice going shrill and cheeks blooming red. “Because if you think I’m saying that I may have gotten into some weirdly intense sorta-romantic thing with _Ravus_ and that I’m really, really into him then yeah, that’s...pretty much what I’m saying.”

Noctis realises he should probably say something. Anything. But he’s a little busy staring at Prompto’s face with his jaw unhinged. He imagines it’s probably the least dignified he’s ever looked - and that includes sitting on his ass on the side of the highway behind a broken luxury car.

“...Gonna catch flies there, buddy,” chirps Prompto, gingerly reaching up to push his mouth closed with a click of teeth. He uses his fingertips like he’s touching something that might bite. “...Noct, please say something because I think I’m dyin’ here.”

“I just -” Noctis sputters, running a hand through his hair. “ _Wow_. I never would have called that. Ever.”

“Yeah, me neither…”

Noctis resolves not to sit in silence, because Prompto looks ready to jump from his own skin. He puts a placating hand on his friend’s shoulder instead and gives him a baffled, but genuine, smile of encouragement. “I’m a little confused,” he starts. “But if you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

“Oh thank the gods,” Prompto sags, with a quiet laugh. “I was so worried.”

“Why? You didn’t think I’d disapprove or something did you?”

“No,” Prompto shakes his head and fiddles with a wrinkle on his pants. “It’s just...it’s Ravus, right? You...you didn’t get to see him like we did, when we all worked together while you...slept.”

Sometimes, the topic of Noctis being inside the crystal was difficult for people to talk about - and he gets it, because sometimes it is for him as well. Ignis and Gladio approach it in their own measured, practical ways...but Prompto still struggles sometimes. The separation had burned a hole in all of them, in one way or another, and it’s a wound that aches from time to time.

“I know there’s this rift between you two,” Prompto continues, still looking at his knees. “And maybe you guys will never really be friends, so I...I dunno.”

Even after years of friendship, Prompto still worries about Noctis’ judgement. He feels for his friend, tightens his hand on his shoulder to soothe away the knots of tension.

“Hey,” murmurs Noctis. “I’m happy for you - really happy for you. You know I’ll never judge you for who you like, right?”

Prompto finally looks up at him then, eyes big and shiny. For a moment he looks like the kid again, the one out on the road for the first time with his friends, with the world at his fingertips.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the bird continue its business amidst the flowers. Afterward, Prompto shyly shows him photos of his time in Tenebrae, blushing when Ravus shows up in the reel more than a few times. Noctis learns something new about his best friend: he’s sweet when he’s in love, wobbly at his edges like he can barely hold his form under the weight of his feelings.

And looking at the photos in Prompto’s camera, he learns something new about Ravus - that he does know how to smile, even if they are unpractised, hesitant little things.  

 

*

 

Noctis mentions the whole thing to Ignis later that night, when they sit in one of the kitchens. He’s watching Ignis finishing up a pie - the latest result of Ignis stress-baking on his day off. Noctis likes these moments, late at night when everyone else asleep; it’s become something of an unofficial routine of theirs, to meet up when things are quiet but their brains just won’t shut up.

Sleep doesn’t come to him as easily as it used to - if it isn’t nightmares, it’s worry. Or stress. Or both. He’s grateful for Ignis in times like these. Ignis, who can still even the harshest storms in his mind, who makes him warm again when the nightmares make him dreadfully cold.

“Well, that’s certainly not something I would have expected either,” says Ignis, pulling the pie from the oven. “Though I suppose I can see how they might be good for one another.”

“Oh?” Noctis’ eyes are trained on the pie - cinnamon apple. It smells _heavenly_. Maybe not the best thing to eat in the middle of the night, but he won’t tell if Ignis doesn’t.  

“Prompto has a big heart,” Ignis explains, pulling the oven mitts off his hands - they’re bright blue, printed with little chocobos on them. Must be one of the kitchen staff’s. “He has always had an abundance of love to give.”

“Yeah,” Noctis nods, arms crossed. He’s still in his sleep clothes, and the fine material of his shirt is soft under his fingers. “I guess I just always imagined him with someone a little more...peppy.”

Ignis chuckles, leaning down to smell the pie: “It might do him well to be with someone as reserved as Ravus, to be frank.”

Before Noctis can question that, he continues, “And Ravus himself...well, the man has always been a touch lonely, wouldn’t you say? Prompto’s exuberance might do _him_ well, in turn.”

Noctis guesses he can see it. He doesn’t know much about Ravus’ life in Niflheim, but some offhand comments from Aranea here and there gave the impression of an isolated  and lonely existence; no one in Niflheim had really liked him all that much, and it had been evident even then that there was no love lost on Ravus’ side either. Now with Luna gone, and the recent death of their old retainer Maria, Noctis wonders who is left in Tenebrae that even really _knows_ Ravus anymore…

It’s sad to think about.

“Are you worried for Prompto?” asks Ignis, leaning against the counter with one hand, the other resting on his hip. It makes the veins cording up his forearm pop, and Noctis dazedly follows their path up with his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “Ravus isn’t a bad person or anything. I guess I just don’t want Prompto to get his heart broken.”

He pauses, blinking at the shadows pooling in the notch of Ignis’ elbow. Self-consciously, he asks: “Is that just me being kind of unfair, you think?”

“Not at all.”

Ignis comes to sit by him on the bench, leaving the pie to cool. Their arms brush against each other, and he’s very warm - more so than normal from the heat of the oven. He even smells like cinnamon and apples, heady and homey.  

“It’s fine to be concerned for a friend, Noct,” he remarks, voice low now that he’s close. There’s no one around, but it still feels like they’re trying to be private. “So long as that concern doesn’t impede Prompto making his own choices.”

“Of course not,” says Noctis, looking over his face; his hair is down tonight, wispy over his cheekbones. His lips are quirked in a gentle smile, and the lines that form at the corner of his mouth are starting to stay for good these days. “I would never.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Ignis says it so simply, and Noctis can do nothing but believe him when he talks like that. Ignis wraps an arm around his shoulders and they rest their heads together, looking at the pie. “Be glad for him, not afraid - to experience love in a time of peace is surely the luckiest thing of all, yes?”  

“Hm,” Noctis feels warm and boneless, and he never wants to leave, never wants to step outside the little world they’ve carved out for themselves in this moment. “Yeah, I’d say so.”


	4. Chapter Four - Pouty, pouty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a thought pops into your head and won't come out.

The Hall of Heroes, as the Citadel staff have taken to calling it, is always quiet - a sacred place. It’s designed like a hall in a museum, with portraits placed behind walls of glass and placards in front to inform those looking in. Near the end of the hall is Luna’s portrait, painted in painstaking detail by an Accordan artist who had been in Altissia the day she died. Noctis had offered a commission for it, but the artist had insisted on painting it without a fee - a tribute, he’d said, to the late Oracle is an honour in itself.

Today Noctis brings another bouquet of sylleblossms, tied together with a white silk ribbon. He stops in front of the portrait and looks at her a while, the ever gentle set of her eyes already relaxing his stiff shoulders. The artist did an incredible job at capturing her likeness, her aura. Nowadays his old injury flares up more than usual, and the stiffness that locks his muscles make him feel older than ever.

“Good morning Luna,” he says, settling the bouquet onto the flat ledge in front of the glass, just above her plaque - it bears the same message as her memorial in Altissia. “It’s been a little while.”

He visits often, and at the beginning of the new age it had been nearly every day. Now, a little less; he guesses this is what healing feels like. Thinking of her makes him feel a bit less raw now, when before it had been like agitating an open wound, relentless and seemingly unending. There’s always going to be some part of him that wants to crumple at the thought of her, but now it’s getting easier to bear.

“You probably already know,” he starts, smiling at her face. “But it looks like Prompto and Ravus might be a thing. Who would’ve guessed?”

He wonders what Luna would have thought of the two of them. She knew Prompto, had liked him very much even though they never met face-to-face; she had asked after him from time to time during their correspondence. And of course, she loved her brother dearly. Noctis imagines that she would be happy to see him find someone amidst all this loneliness.

“They both deserve happiness, so much of it,” he says. “I’m not sure Ravus is ever...going to be comfortable around me, but I’m glad for him too. I know you’re looking out for him - I hope you’ll be able to see him smile.”

“No wedding bells for Gladio yet,” he continues, hands in his pockets. It’s not a stance he would be allowed to take in front of the public, but Luna had always seemed to delight in his immature jokes in their letters to each other. Would she have laughed, watching him slouch? “Though Iris hasn’t been putting the screws to him like we all thought she would - Gladio’s thinking it might be an intimidation tactic, y’know, get ‘im when he least expects it.”

“Iggy’s been doing great too - the council he’s putting together is top notch. I really can’t imagine getting through this without him...last week, I met with the new Secretary of Altissia and she even made a joke about poaching him from under me.”

He laughs a little, and the silence that greets it stings less than it used to. He knows that somewhere out there Luna is listening, would answer if she could.

“I miss you - so much still,” he touches the ribbon in lieu of being able to reach out for the painting. He imagines that her dress would have felt something like this. “I hope wherever you are, you’re doing well. I think of you every day.”

 

*

 

One day things change. Only, he doesn’t know it for what it is at the time.

After a morning of stuffy meetings Noctis finally gets out of the Citadel for the afternoon, having lunch at a cafe with Iris. For a while the both of them receive a myriad of astonished stares from the other patrons and waitstaff - but after it starts to become apparent that the saviour of the world and one of Insomnia’s venerated war heroes are really just there to sit and eat, the looks peter off and the two of them are able to settle into conversation.

“I know Gladdy thinks I’m going to start pestering him for a wedding ceremony any day now,” she says, voice wry. She’s lost much of the roundness from her face, features sharper than he remembers - both from age and from the scarcity of food during the decade. She keeps her hair tied up tight against her head, so used to the practicality that even the peace times haven’t wrestled the habit from her. It shows off those angular Amicitia features - the jawline, the high cheekbones, the arched brows. Daemon Slayer Iris grew up to be something of a smouldering beauty, just like her brother.

“Yup,” Noctis grins at her, drinking from his coffee. He still doesn’t like the stuff much, but he needs the energy. “I think he’s bracing himself for a tirade.”

“Gee, of course,” she laughs, plopping her elbow on the table and leaning her chin on her palm. She’s back to painting her fingernails cute colours, at least. Today they’re a nice glossy purple. “He’s always going to think I’m a teenager.”

“You’re his baby sis.”

“Yeah yeah - I’ve given up convincing him otherwise!”

As far as Noctis knows, Iris has no romance in her life - still carrying that torch for Noctis that they both don’t acknowledge. A part of him feels guilty for it, that he’s never managed to quite stop viewing her as a sister and return her feelings. He hopes that someday soon someone will come along and turn her head - for both their sakes.

They’re chatting about her new position in the crownsguard and her work with the recruits when a group of young women grab a table a few paces away from them; their voices are loud enough that Noctis quirks his ear to eavesdrop despite himself, and from the corner of his eye he sees Iris doing the same.

“There’s eligible bachelors, and then there’s hitting the jackpot,” says one, petite with long blonde hair in a neat braid down her back. Her hands move wildly as she speaks, “Can you imagine? Six, getting with the king’s advisor would be the biggest upgrade _ever_.”

“Which one’s the advisor again?” asks another, taller with tawny skin and shockingly red hair - most likely not a local.

“How do you not know this?” stutters the third, a pale, mousy brunette in a wildly colourful sundress. “You’ve been here for months!”

“We never paid attention to the royals in Lestallum, y’know. And it’s not like I’ve gotten to really see any of them in person since coming here - I barely know what the king looks like!”

The other two sigh as Noctis turns his head away, ineffectually trying to hide should they glance over and see the King of Lucis listening in on their gossip; Iris snorts at him. The blonde perks up again.

“You’ve probably seen him, he’s the Hand of the King. The guy with the glasses. Y’know - the tall, good-looking one,” she says, gesturing above her head to approximate Ignis’ height. “With the pouty lips?”

That one sticks with him, long after the conversation is over and the women trot out of the restaurant, tipsy and giggling. Long after he and Iris have said their goodbyes and part ways on the street. Later, during dinner, he catches himself examining Ignis’ mouth as his friend sips his wine, the girl’s words a steady drumbeat through his brain.

_Pouty, pouty…_

He supposes he can see it. The sharp bend to his cupid’s bow, the naturally downward turn of them...very pouty. If Noctis were more driven to impulses, he imagines he might reach up and drag the pads of his fingers down on that mouth, to pull that plush cushion of his lower lip down just to watch it pop back into place, getting a glimpse of Ignis’ perfect white teeth and red, wet tongue.

He shakes himself, pulls himself out of the thought, feeling strangely off-kilter.  


	5. Chapter Five - You're in it Now, Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, your brain has trouble catching up to what your body already knows.

Today is one of those days, where his leg locks up and twinges and just won’t move the way he wants it to. These days bring him down, not in the way of sadness, but in the way of reminders - that he’s growing older, that for all his feats his body is still a body, with pieces stitched together somewhat poorly in some places.

“Did you read the report from Lestallum?” asks Ignis, bringing over his tea. They’re in one of the executive lounge rooms this time, on one of the higher floors of the Citadel. It’s late afternoon and they’re both watching the rain patter against the window. It’s a bit of a change of pace from their usual late night rendezvous but Noctis finds he likes it. The night alway felt private, but it’s nice to have this quiet, familiar energy between them in the daylight as well.

It’s cloudy outside and the grey cast over the city makes him lethargic. Luckily it’s just the two of them, and so Noctis gets to lounge back on the long couch with his bad leg on flat on the cushion, shoes on and all.  

“Yeah - the one about setting up a rail?” at Ignis’ nod, he continues. “I think it’s an interesting proposal. We could use a faster transport to Lestallum - the city’s expanding, after all.”

He wraps the whole of his hands around the cup of tea, soaking in its warmth, and braces it on top of his thigh rather than the coffee table. The warmth doesn’t actually do much, but it feels nice.  

“Agreed,” Ignis murmurs, blowing lightly into his own cup. The motion makes his lips into a heart shape; it’s kind of cute. “Eamon and Oberon are the last to concede, but it’s just a matter of convincing them of the long term benefits.”

Ah, the new council. Already, people have settled enough into the routine to start up the disagreements and clashes of personality that always characterize these things. It’s so _normal_ , so like the administrative dramas Noctis had tuned out in his childhood that Noctis finds it almost a little enjoyable. They are problems that he doesn’t have to swing his sword at, problems that don’t need any kind of divine intervention to see them fixed.

Nearly a year after the first dawn, and things are finally normal enough to be boring. Thank the gods for that.  

“They’ll come around,” Noctis says, watching the trajectory of one particularly fat drop of rain as it crawls down the length of the glass. “It’s _you_ we’re talking about here. Haven’t met a single person who could counter you when you’re on a roll, Iggy.”

“Naturally.”

The drink and talk about the latest in city developments, though without the necessary attention needed during proper meetings. It’s relaxed, and they’re both grateful for the chance to unwind after a long day of busywork.

Noctis likes how warm his chest feels from drinking the tea, the sweetness of the honey rich on his tongue. If he has to abide rain, he’d do it for how good these moments feel within it.

Ignis has his own share of old injuries, too - the area around his left eye that the crystal didn’t manage to heal entirely; when one looks closely it’s apparent that the skin around it is different from the rest of his face, a little rougher, a little warmer to the touch. Ignis told him that it aches from time to time, as though the ring’s searing power still reaches for him sometimes - a painful reminder that magic follows its own rules, that the consequences are absolute even in their graciousness.

Noctis rubs at his knee, Ignis smooths his fingers over the line of his cheekbone; here they both were, two marked up old warriors sitting in the infancy of the new world. Sometimes, it feels surreal that they’ve made it to the other side.

Noctis is perturbed to find that his eyes have settled on Ignis’ face again, in that intense way that he’s never noticed from himself before but does now, to his chagrin. How often has he done exactly this, dragging his gaze over his friend’s form in a greedy sweep, all without noticing himself doing it?

Ignis comes over to his place on the couch, plucking Noctis’ ankle in one of his big hands and takes a seat. He replaces Noctis’ calf across his lap, a gesture he’s done a thousand times before, only now Noctis is distracted by how strong his thighs feel under him. Noctis has seen Ignis vault gracefully over enemies many times his height - he knows how strong they are.

He’s a little annoyed at himself for listening in on the women at the cafe, because now he can’t seem to look at Ignis without thinking about it. He’s always been aware that his advisor is good looking, but that is hardly remarkable - beautiful people have surrounded him all his life: Gladio and Iris both carried the famed sultry Amicitia features and Prompto, despite his occasional lack of confidence, absolutely turned heads wherever he went, what with his big soulful eyes and unreasonably cute freckles. There was Luna, who would’ve been famed for her beauty even had she not been the oracle. Even his father, weakened as he was by the wall, had remained remarkably handsome into his old age. Then there was Cor, and Monica, and Talcott, and so many more.   

Now though, he looks at Ignis and the perfect proportions of his face and the flawlessness of his skin invite Noctis to look at them differently than before.  

“Are you all right, Noct?” asks Ignis, because Ignis is caring person and not some pervert that leers at his friends.

“Totally, completely fine.” Noctis brings the cup to his lips to hide his face.

 

*

 

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. For once though, it isn’t restlessness that keeps him awake.

Not the usual kind anyway.

He’s hard in his sleep pants, hips squirming against the sheets. For him, this isn’t usual - hasn’t been for a long, long time. After Altissia Noctis’ libido had receded into nearly nothing, weighed down and burdened as he was by the state of the world, his losses, his own heartache, the crushing defeat he felt down to his bones. And after, there had only been the crystal, where his body had become more of a suggestion than a reality. Upon his return, there had simply been no time for anything but the final fight and everything from his mind to his body was honed toward that singular goal. No time, no time, no time.  

Now, there is nothing but time and it seems his body has chosen to take up regular procedures again. He sighs, eyelids heavy from aborted sleep. He wants to growl from frustration - there’s an early meeting tomorrow.  

Giving in, Noctis slips his hand past his waistband and wraps his fingers around himself, intending to stroke with purpose, quick and efficient. At first he’s just wants to get it over with, like he often had to in his younger days, but as soon as he touches his own skin the shock of pleasure wakes him up.

He’s almost forgotten how good this was.

He doesn’t think of anything in particular, focuses on the feeling and loses himself to a myriad of imaginary sensations too vague to take shape. He thinks about what he might _want_ to happen: deep kisses, absolutely, and holding open a nice pair of legs - shaping the whole of his hand around a firm thigh or slender calf. Maybe laving his tongue around someone’s navel, feeling the muscles jump under his tongue. He wants hands on him too, grazing down his nipples, cupping his ass, holding his hips down; a mouth, sucking him down and enveloping him in slick, hungry heat.

_“Y’know - the tall, good-looking one with the pouty lips?”_

Pouty is good - he likes the look of a nice a shapely mouth, rosy from use, with a sharp curves and a plush lower lip contained by a narrow, angular jawline. He imagines smooth skin marred by the smallest of scars, the proud jut of a chin above a long throat, adorned by a chain with a tiny skull charm that dances with every move. Clear green eyes, blinking up at him from a thick curve of eyelashes.

He comes with a stuttered breath to the image of Ignis’ face, strong enough to knock the wind from him.  

Noctis evens his breathing and stares hard at his ceiling, pants ruined and one thought roiling in his head like a tidal wave.  

 _Shit, shit, shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my update schedule is a little borked, lol - enjoy!


	6. Chapter Six - The Moments We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For now, all they are is in the moments between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right - the next few chapters are a lot bigger and denser, and i don't know how long it'll take, so i decided to cap off this week's upload streak with yet another one; thank you for the comments guys, i super appreciate them! i'm glad folks are enjoying this <3!

Over the next few weeks there are a series of moments, each sealed, stamped, and catalogued in his head to examine later when he’s alone and his attention isn’t needed elsewhere. What’s he searching for with them? He’s not sure himself, maybe he’ll find the answer along the way - or maybe, he just wants to see if he can narrow down the texture, the details, the flyaways of his new feelings, the new ways he’s looking at Ignis, so that perhaps he can get a handle on this _thing_ that feels so out of his control.

 

*

 

One of those moments was during a late afternoon where Noctis “helped” Ignis make bread. The most he contributed was kneading the dough, and so they stood, side-by-side at the counter with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and flour coating their forearms. Ignis had paused for a moment, thinking of something as he braced his hand on the counter - palm flat, long fingers splayed. On a whim Noctis had placed his own next to it, like kids comparing their bodies - memorizing how the tips of his own fingers only came up to the length of Ignis’ last knuckles and how, despite Ignis’ natural leanness, his hands weren’t very slender at all; broad palms and blunt fingertips, square wrists and pronounced tendons.  

When Ignis noticed, he smiled and left his hand where it was, letting the king have his fill of whatever unspoken fun he was having. He didn’t ask, never did, just gave - bending, bowing yet never breaking. Even for the smallest of things.

 

*

 

One happens without Ignis even being there. Noctis had dipped into Ignis’ office hoping to find him, having left his phone at home and needing an excuse to stretch his legs anyway. It was not a place he normally set foot in, with Ignis always at the ready to go wherever Noctis is instead.

It was a corner office, spacious with enormous windows that faced the city’s arts district. Naturally, Ignis kept it tidy, but there had been more evidence of indulgence and personality than Noctis would have expected from him: framed art on the walls - and going by the signatures at the bottoms of some, they were personalized - next to his certificates and degrees, and rows of trinkets on his bookshelves. He spied a few souvenirs from their travels during the roadtrip - a car ornament, a rare seashell, a chocobo feather quill - and even Ignis’ old notebook he’d used to fill in recipes, long since filled to the last page.

There was a table along the wall farthest from Ignis’ desk, with some of Prompto’s photos framed and sitting delicately on top; some of the more expertly-composed shots, the early hints of Prompto’s future mastery. Next to a small marble statuette of the Citadel and a small stack of books separated from those on the shelves, there was a pile of postcards, and the strangeness of seeing them had prompted Noctis to pick one up and read it.

It was from Altissia, the front showing the city glittering like a jewel, and very old - dated way back before they had all left for their trip. The writing on the back was in a deep red ink, the penmanship so elegant it could’ve made Noctis’ eyes water:

 

_should you ever make it here, darling, try the meringue at demetra’s - think of me when you do, yes?_

_~ cosima, who still thinks of you_

 

Filled with an emotion he tried not to think about too much, he had placed the card gingerly back. Then, more curious than he had any right to be, and inattentive to Ignis’ privacy in that moment, Noctis had reached over to the books and picked up the top one - “He Who Speaks Through the Storm” by D. Damiano, about as old as the postcard - flipping to the back of its cover to the author’s dedication:

 

To beautiful Lafayette and the rocks we skipped across the shore,

To humble Xenia, her smiles, and her heart,

And to clever Scientia, the man who will outfox the world, and to whom I owe this book’s completion.

Fly, my loves.

 

Noctis had placed the book back too, with a shaking hand, the breath pulled from his lungs. These people, so many of Ignis’ friends - and lovers? The thought made him weak - that he’d never even heard about. Who had these people been, were they alive now, in this age of peace? What role did they have in his friend’s life, what had they given to make the shape of Ignis Scientia now?

He’d been perturbed to realize how little he knew about Ignis’ world outside of him, and the thought stayed with him for days afterward.

 

*

 

Another moment - days later, in the dead of a rainy night when Ignis is reading to him again, the old habit that has since been resurrected. “The Canticle of Lady Decima” the book had been called, a pseudo-fictional fable about one of the lesser Lucis Caelums who, with all the freedoms that came with not being the firstborn, travelled the nation in search of love - only to find it back in her home of Insomnia, so near to the end of her life; Noctis had chosen it because he liked how the highbrow language sounded in Ignis’ voice.    

Awkwardly, Lady Decima’s love had ended up being the sworn shield of the king - and the taboo of royals marrying those directly under their command kept the two apart. Ignis’ voice had become wistful during those parts, and Noctis asked him if he was a romantic.

Ignis adjusted his glasses on his nose, catching the candlelight. Quiet as a whisper and deadly serious, he said, “No one will believe you.”

They laughed, the both of them, in their little world bathed in candlelight, swallowed by the rain.

 

*

 

Another still, is the one that happens in that same stormy week. They’d been out in the city, enjoying a day off; Ignis had planned on shopping, and Noctis elected to join him because the thought of being cooped up in the Citadel all day made him antsy. It had been sunny when they’d left, a wonderful reprieve from the grey skies and wet pavement of the days before, but in a flash a rainstorm fell upon them. Noctis hadn’t been prepared, having left his jacket in the car - not that it was cold, but he still looked up at the rain past the canopy they’d found themselves under with annoyance.

A warm weight settled around him, and he looked up to find Ignis pulling the jacket snug over Noctis’ shoulders. It left him in his deep violet shirt, the top buttons loose as always, and these days, with Noctis deep in doubt and an apparent crisis of attraction to his friend, Ignis’ taste for tailored clothing made his head swim. His waist was so very trim, and Noctis wondered how his hands would look locked around it, fingers clamped into his skin and holding him still.

“You don’t have to,” he had said, pointing to the jacket, too big on him and infused with the smell of Ignis’ cologne; a heady combination of vetiver and cedarwood, sexy enough to make his toes curl in his shoes at just the faintest whiff. “The car’s only a few blocks away.”

Ignis never really shrugs, at least not with his shoulders - what he does instead is tilts his head to the side, a small jut of his chin that has the same dismissiveness of a shrug, but far more elegant. He did it then, the loose strands of his wet hair sweeping across his forehead.

“Indulge me, Majesty,” he said, with a small grin as he shifted the bag in his arms. Noctis’ formal title is slipping into his speech more and more these days, like it’s becoming an endearment rather than a mark of conduct. Sometimes, Noctis’ ears heat in hearing it. “There are some sights I don’t get to see very often, anymore.”

“Huh? Something funny?” his brows lifted as he looked down at himself.

Ignis just shook his head, something private twinkling in his eyes. “Nothing to fret about,” he said as he reached up and ruffled Noctis’ hair. He hadn’t done that in years, and Noctis had stared, boggled, at Ignis’ back as his friend left the canopy and made his way to the car.

 

***

 

Noctis asks around, to all the people he knows who are in love - or who have ever been in love. He’s not sure that’s what this is yet, this thing that’s pulling him to Ignis, but a little research never hurt; he wants to try looking at it under different lenses, to see which one makes the picture clearest.

He approaches Gladio first, catching him after training with recruits - asks him when he knew, _how_ he knew, that Sania was the one.

First he gets a shrug, then, “I figured it out pretty quick; when you get around enough, you know it when it hits you. There’s just a different energy.”

“From her?”

“Nah,” he rolls his shoulders and stretches; his engagement ring winks in the light. “From me.”

 

*

 

Noctis and Prompto are finishing a highly-reviewed and incredibly pretentious art film about Galahdi fire ants when he broaches the question.

“It happened in a moment,” said Prompto, biting his lip as he thinks. The rolling credits gleam in the blue of his eyes, and from the side it almost makes him look manic. “I mean, I guess I would say...about a week in, we were in the sylleblossom garden, right? And I took his picture. And then I just didn’t really stop taking his picture, after.”

He waves his hands like he’s fast-forwarding his own story, “We talked a lot, y’know? And the thing is, he _got_ me - the stuff that sometimes I feel like I can’t really explain to other people. Being from one place but growing up in another, stuff like that.”

“How’d you tell him?”

“That’s the other thing,” says Prompto, face going red. “ _He_ told _me_ . And there I was going nuts during my last week in Tenebrae, having my super-late sexuality crisis or whatever, and he just _tells me._ ”

Prompto pauses to think about it, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, taking on that lilting happiness that it does when he talks about Ravus these days: “And that was when I knew for sure, without a doubt. Because he read me, y’know? Even when I couldn’t figure it out myself - he paid attention.”

 

*

 

Monica’s husband died a long time ago and she never remarried. It’s been long enough that she speaks about it candidly, with no trace of pain.

“It took me quite a while,” she says, typing up a report on the computer. “He had feelings for me, but I had been so absorbed in my work that I hadn’t realized. My sister had to sit me down and explain, oh Your Majesty, it was _embarrassing_. Even after that, it was slow on my side - but he waited for me. And that’s how I knew.”

 

*

 

Noctis doesn’t approach Iris, because he isn’t cruel.

 

*

 

One night, during meditation - a new addition to his routine now, suggested to him by his doctor to clear his head, relax his body - he gets an idea so ludicrous that he instantly acts on it.

“Hey Gentiana,” he says, looking out the window of his bedroom. “How did you know?”

There’s always a slight chill whenever she manifests, a small dip the room’s temperature - they really should have made the connection between her and the Glacian long before she unveiled the truth herself.

“He brought out the best in my heart,” she murmurs, her gentle voice bearing down in its wisdom. There’s an edge of amusement in it, as though the whole thing were incredibly comical. “And I saw the world clearly for the first time.”


	7. Chapter Seven - Seven Minutes in Heaven, Or: Three Weeks on the Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even kings need a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, I ended up with a huge and very unwieldy chunk of words that need some trimming - starting with this. I'm also eager to keep this trucking because the feeling of holding all these WIPs is troubling, LOL - so if I'm blowing up anybody's inboxes, I'm sorry!
> 
> Happy Easter!

The rain season won’t let up, and it feels like a cloud of depression and stress hovering over Insomnia. Watching the drawn faces walking the halls of the Citadel puts a damper on his mood, and he finds himself sequestering himself away more and more. The gardens are no option, not in the rain, and so he turns to overworking himself in the quiet of his office for days on end.

The self-exile has the added benefit of taking his mind off Ignis.   

So of course the routine changes - a spontaneous shifting of gears that upends the temporary and artificial peace of mind he’s built for himself. Because the universe is cruel, and even crueler to Noctis above all - the punching bag of the cosmos, practice dummy for every harebrained machination of the bored fates.   

It starts on a morning like any other: Noctis coming down to his office, fully expecting to read presentations on land development or proposals on pothole management, and finds Ignis hovering by his seat with a pinched look on his face.

“Bad news?” he asks, brow raised.

“Good news,” says Ignis, though he frowns slightly. “Of a sort.”

“Your face tells me otherwise, Specs.”

Ignis sighs, pulling off his glasses and wiping them with a cloth; it’s a maroon handkerchief, actually _embroidered_ with his initials. Who does that? Ignis apparently, and of course, it’s deeply charming. He rubs at the lenses and gets to the point: “It would seem that you’re to take a vacation starting next week. And apparently, I am to join you.”

“...run that by me again?”

Ignis replaces his glasses on his face and now his frown turns into something of a sardonic grin. “It’s been declared that we are working too much, and in need of a proper getaway.”

“Declared by _who_ , exactly?”

“The combined forces of Gladio and Sania, Prompto, Monica, Iris, most of the crownsguard command, and messrs Calinthe, Rubrum, Tacitus, and Kadir from the council, respectively,” says Ignis. “There are others, but I imagine you’ve gotten the point.”

Noctis lets out a breath. Then he laughs, hands over his face.

“Guess that’s that, then,” Noctis shucks off his jacket and places it on the back of his chair with a tired smile. “Let’s give the people what they want, Specs.”

 

*

 

Their getaway is a small destination town a few miles out from Altissia called Litore, known for its beach, its food, and being the cultural heart of Accordan literature; poets and writers came from far and wide to see the place, pilgrims in search of their muse, hoping to be struck with the same inspiration that created the great wordsmiths of Accordo in ages past. None of that was ever in Noctis’ wheelhouse - but a vacation is a vacation, and it will be nice to get out of the rain.

Three weeks, they had. Three weeks to unwind and fly away free from royal duties.

It sounded like one hell of a deal, if it weren’t for the fact that being in such private proximity to Ignis for a month was sure to wreak havoc on his newly resurfaced libido. And stoke those currently undeclared and utterly _complicated_ feelings in addition to that.

 _Deal with it as it comes, Noct_ , he thinks to himself, watching as their bags get packed in the car. _You’ve fought gods and won, you can handle being around your hot best friend_.

He looks over to where Ignis is helping to lift the bags into the trunk, bare forearms tensing, veins threading down, down, down until they disappear into his gloves. Some of his hair is even coming loose from its careful coiff.  

 _...You can_ make an attempt _at being around your hot best friend_.

“I hear Litore is totally magical,” says Prompto, standing at his side. “I’m pretty sure Sania picked the place out - oh, you gotta try the gelato and send me pictures, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Noctis nods, running a hand across his beard. “And are you sure you all got things covered here? Three weeks is a long time.”

“More than covered - don’t even _think_ of worrying about us. If you do, I’ll know! And then I’ll have to send you a bunch of really whiny texts to get you to quit it; trust me, I can do whiny texts like a boss - Ravus gets them all the time.”

Noctis chuckles, trying to imagine Ravus looking down at a cellphone with that taciturn expression of his, perplexed at Prompto’s barrage of emojis. Behind them a door opens, and he looks up as Gladio comes walking out from the entrance of the Citadel with their driver in tow - for once, Ignis wasn’t going to have to spend all of his time behind the wheel. When he gets closer to where Noctis and Prompto are standing, Gladio hands him a piece of paper. It looks like a list.

“What’s this?”

“Rare first editions,” he says, with a wry smirk. “Book stores in Litore are supposed to be something else. Would make for a good wedding present...just sayin’.”

Noctis shakes his head and laughs, bumping Gladio’s arm with his elbow. “You want me to go shopping for you? What happened to this being _my_ trip?”

“Hey, you get to run around on the beach while we’re stuck here during rain season,” he quips, throwing an arm over Noctis’ shoulder in a one-armed hug. “Figure it’s worth a shot.”

“All right big guy,” Noctis returns the hug, tightly. “I’ll see what I can do.”  

Ignis strides over to the three of them, finished with the packing: “I do hope some of Sania’s picks made it into that wishlist.”

“I’m a gentleman,” says Gladio, hugging him too. “But I got dibs on any and all Dion first editions. She understands.”

Prompto jumps in for his hug, nearly vibrating with excitement: “Iggy, you gotta grab some recipes and bring ‘em over here, okay? I’m dying.”

“Duly noted,” Ignis claps him on the back with a laugh.

“Looks like it’s time to take off,” says Gladio, giving a nod to their driver who is standing at ready. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  

 

*

 

A bump on the road jolts him awake, his eyes opening to the black partition and rain beating on the windows; it takes him a few bleary moments to realize they’re still in the car. There’s a hard weight digging into his lap, and he looks down to see Ignis sleeping, facing in the direction of Noctis’ knees; his glasses are nearly falling off, and the book they had been reading is resting on his chest, the place they left off marked by his thumb. Glancing to the side, he sees one of Ignis’ long legs curled up on the seats, shoe still on, the other braced on the car floor.

He picks up the book they were reading - Ignis’ choice this time, apparently from his personal collection: “Stars, Are We” by D. Damiano - about a couple that find each other again years after a whirlwind romance during a time of war. He turns to the first few pages just behind the cover, embarrassingly relieved to find no dedication to Ignis this time. It doesn’t last long, because his eyes find the small, personalized message written in green ink:

 

_Ignis, my sparrow -_

_Ever beheld your heart in your hands?_

_Looked upon its face, looking back at you?_

_Do you know the feeling?_

_When you do - read this again, and tell me if it rings true._

_I’ve always adored your counsel._

 

_D._

 

He sighs and puts the book down on the floor. Jealousy flares unfairly up in his chest again, ugly and yet - becoming horribly familiar. Like the one family member at a function that no one likes but tolerates because they have to.

Or so he assumes it feels like, not that he’s ever experienced that for himself.

Beyond the jealousy, the part of this that unsettles him the most, is the feeling of complete dismay - that others, early on, have been seeing in Ignis what he’s only managing to see now, late in the worst possible way.

Giving into an impulse, he reaches up to run his fingers lightly through Ignis’ hair. It’s extremely rare that Ignis dozes off like this, he must really have been tired - probably nodded off on Noctis’ shoulder and slid down at some point during the ride. Not that he’s complaining, not with Ignis’ lovely profile laid out for him like a treat.

Noctis is familiar with how painful distance can be, when the miles bear down like a blunt instrument of hurt, steadily pounding the air from your lungs until you’ve nearly forgotten what it was like to breathe. He’d thought that was the worst of it, that it could never be as bad as when the other person is a world away and out of reach. He’s beginning to learn, as he’s trailing his fingers down to Ignis’ brows and tracing the line of his nose, that he might have been a little hasty in his judgement; if anything, closeness makes the longing _worse_.   

His fingers bypass Ignis’ mouth, because that would be intimate in a way that he’s certainly not allowed, and he feels vaguely guilty for even considering going there. Even if he got what he wanted, it still wouldn’t be allowed - the taboos of royalty getting involved with servants to the crown are absolute.

Instead, he reaches up to sweep some of that wayward hair back into place, cradling his head, that wonderful mind; Noctis wonders if he’s dreaming at all.  

He ends his exploration by resting his palm flat on the center of Ignis’ chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the slow, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. There’s some less than decent thoughts flashing through his head too, feeling as he can the contours of Ignis’ body through his shirt, the flat of his sternum and the slope of his pecs; that little skull he wears moves as the car bumps along the road, twitching almost as if in laughter.

“I’d be laughing at me too,” he tells it, watching it roll along Ignis’ collarbones.   


	8. Chapter Eight - Honey, I'm on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wine and dine, and a little bit of evening sunshine.

To reach Litore they have to take the boat to Altissia, pass through the city, and drive the rest of the way; a long travel time, all in all. When they get off the boat and go through immigration at the Altissian gates, the two of them part ways for a few hours - Noctis to visit Luna’s grave, and Ignis to pick up some extra supplies.

Noctis brings with him a fresh bouquet of sylleblossoms and sits by her plaque, whispering in their usual one-sided conversation; it’s better here than in the Hall of Heroes back home, bathed in sunlight and the smell of the sea. He can look up at the clouds and think that she’s creating shapes for him, like with the paper dolls they made together when they were children back in Tenebrae, making them dance in front of lantern lights to cast shadows on the walls.      

When he finishes and meets up with Ignis again, they take a gondola to their next stop.

Much of the city is still in ruins, and the hordes of construction mar the pretty of image of Altissia from their memory. The place had been nearly abandoned after waking Leviathan, and afterward, the dark decade had fallen on the world - there just hadn’t been any time or reason for the Accordan government to focus their resources on rebuilding. Now, the city is desperate to catch up with their peers, set to restoring its previous splendor.

As they glide through the water, Noctis looks out at a boulevard full of men and women in hardhats, and wonders if Ignis has ever had the chance to try the meringue.   

 

*

 

The delegation that greets them when they finally arrive in Litore is small, fronted by a small woman in cream suit with a kind, round face.

“It is an incredible honour to meet you, Your Majesty,” she says, her accent the same smooth staccato rhythm of the people this far out in Accordo. “My name is Mariana Uccello - mayor of Litore. How exciting that you’ve chosen our little town for your rest!”

“The honour is mine,” says Noctis with a smile, taking her hand and planting a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve heard nothing but praise.”

“We aim to live up to it,” she laughs, big and full - so far from the reserved folk of Lucis. Something tight in his shoulders loosens at the sound as she shakes Ignis’ hand. “If you will follow me - we have everything prepared for your arrival.”

She gestures behind her and several men move forward to take their bags.

“Now!” she claps, beaming. “To the villa!”

The group disperses, Noctis and Ignis being led to a limousine along with the mayor. Per protocol Noctis gets in and seats himself first, and he has to admit - the Accordans make some damn nice cars. When Ignis and Mariana take their seats Noctis is still running his hands along the leather, impressed at the quality.

The car takes off and the three of them get to talking, keeping to rote and polite topics: reconstruction efforts in both countries, cultural exchange, and the expectations for their vacation here. At some point, Noctis lets Ignis take over the conversation as he watches the scenery pass by through the window - sprawling fields and trees bearing fruit, little houses made of russet-coloured brick with vineyards in their yards; picturesque - even romantic, Noctis thinks. Maybe all those poets and travelling artists had the right idea.     

They’ve been set up in a large, exquisite villa on the outskirts of the town - built on a hill that overlooks the beach, and surrounded by trees. Aside from the few smaller compounds that bracket the house, there are no other buildings around - a complete and total getaway from the rush of city life. It used to be one of the many summer homes of Accordan royalty, explains Mariana as their group leaves their cars and make their way up the cobblestone path, before the country dissolved the monarchy. Since then, the place has been maintained and kept as a quasi-historical landmark, occasionally used for visiting dignitaries or renown artists who could afford the stay. All a part of the “pure Accordan experience”, or so they’re told, picture-perfect for the postcards, guaranteed to create the fondest of memories to take with them when they leave.   

Privately, Noctis thinks the mayor is trying a little too hard to oversell it - it’s not like Noctis is particularly hard to please. But one look at the charming brick exterior and tall, curved arches has Ignis practically starry-eyed, so Noctis stifles his chuckle with his hand and shakes the thought off.

“Severo and Giulia Sarti,” says Mariana, pointing to the older couple who stand in wait on the veranda. “The majordomo of the house, and his wife. They will attend to your every need Your Majesty, please - do not hesitate to ask them for anything.”

Noctis shakes both of their hands, and they greet him with the looks of adoration and awe that greet him wherever he goes these days. He’s almost forgotten about this - the people back in the crown city have gotten used to the sight of him, the saviour of the world, and the knowledge that he walks among them like anyone else. Most most of the world outside Insomnia has not; nearly a year after the first dawn, and the legend of him is still fresh in the minds of most.

“Thank you for taking us under your care,” he says politely, trying not to squirm under their gaze. “We’re looking forward to staying with you.”

They bow and murmur their own niceties, flustered and breathless. The man, Severo, gestures to the front door: “Shall we begin the tour, Your Majesty?”

Noctis stamps down the instinct to ask them to do away with the title, because he knows it won’t be heeded. So he nods instead, sharing a smile with Ignis as they follow the couple.

 

*

 

After the tour, the Sartis depart to give them some time to decompress from their travels, emphasizing that they will only be a compound away and that Noctis should _absolutely not_ hesitate if either of them needed anything. The intense - almost _feverish_ \- hospitality is appreciated, but makes him tired - so when they leave Noctis instantly drops onto the couch in the living room and rubs at his eyes, groaning as his back sinks into the leather.  

“As always, the Accordans are a lively bunch,” says Ignis, amused as he sits down next to Noctis’ head. Noctis feels a gentle hand rub at his scalp and he sighs, leaning into the touch. “Or perhaps it is we Lucians who lack enough exuberance.”

“Can it be both?” Noctis murmurs, then hums as Ignis’ fingers drop down to rub circles on his temples. “People still treat me like I’m an Astral, or something.”

“You saved the world, Noct,” Ignis responds, gentle. “Everyone on Eos owes you their lives.”

“Yeah but,” Noctis lifts himself a little and shuffles backward, resettling his head on Ignis’ lap; guiltily, he remembers taking liberties with Ignis’ sleeping form in the car and tries not to think of this as taking even more. Even if it feels so very good. “I’m still just me. Just a person, like they are.”

Ignis huffs a breathy laugh, and his voice is low - so quiet that Noctis almost misses it when he speaks: “You have no idea how extraordinary you are, do you?”

“Mm?”

“It’s nothing,” says Ignis, clearer. “Shall we head into town for supper? Or would you like me to make something here?”

“You’re in vacation too, Iggy; c’mon, let’s go into town.”

Dinner is lowkey. They drive into the city just as evening starts to settle in, in a charming red little beetle car, courtesy of the mayor and local government - Noctis keeps the window rolled down, sweating a little in the humid country air. The heart of the town isn’t far from their villa, and had they been less tired from the travelling they could have even walked the distance.

They find parking and take their time exploring their options, strolling through Litore’s central piazza and watching the people mill about. Cities all around the world are still in the throes of reconstruction, and Litore is no different it seems - they see a man balanced precariously on a stepladder and reinforcing a sign in front of a shop, and several labourers clearing out a huge pile of debris from what was clearly used to be a building. Even so, the cobblestoned roads and low brick buildings paints a romantic picture, Noctis thinks, as he watches several couples walk by them, holding hands and whispering to each other in low tones.

It’s incredibly different from anywhere in Lucis, and even the bright glittering splendor of Altissia; Intimate. Gentle. Warm.  

“What a lovely place this is,” murmurs Ignis, to himself. “Absolutely splendid - do you see that architecture? It’s been meticulously preserved since the old ages. What a _culture_.”

“Thinking of ditching Lucis, Specs?” Noctis nudges him with his elbow, a wry smirk on his face. “Don’t make me cuff you to me - I’ll do it, I swear.”

Ignis chuckles and shakes his head: “Of course not. Accordo is very beautiful, to be sure,” he looks at Noctis and wraps his arm across Noctis’ shoulders, bumping their heads together. “But Lucis is my home.”

He’d never given much stock to the old saying about butterflies and infatuation, but he feels a distinct fluttering in his chest that makes him reconsider: “Good to hear.”

They find a homey-looking restaurant at the corner of a strip and they’re given at a table on the second floor balcony, where vines twine around the wooden beams along the railing, trailing all the way up and across the canopy above. Their server seats them with a practised gesture, lights the little candle at the center of their table, and sets the menus down with a flair.

She doesn’t seem recognize Noctis - or, if she does, she’s being incredibly levelheaded about it - and he’s so pleased by this he’s already calculating an enormous tip in his head.  

She leaves to give them time to look over the menus.

“What made you pick this place?” asks Noctis, looking over the array of foreign names and not even knowing where to start.

“It was mentioned to me by a friend, once,” Ignis says, already closing his menu and setting it down. Record time; Ignis never dawdled when it came to picking food. “It comes highly recommended.”

“Mm,” Noctis closes his and hands it to Ignis. “How about you pick for me? I don’t recognize most of these.”

“Already done.” Ignis stacks it on top of his with a knowing smile.

Noctis gives him a fond shake of his head, hair falling into his face as he says, softly, “What would I do without you?”

“Carry on as always, I imagine.”

“Not even close.”

Ignis smiles, picking up the wine list and scanning the page: “Are you partaking tonight, Noct?”

“Get me whatever you’re getting.”

Their server returns and Ignis only orders a risotto for himself and arancini for Noctis, since neither of them are especially hungry. For the wine, he asks the server for a recommendation.

“Oh, the Gabbiani Red, _absolutely_ ,” she says, voice chipper. “You’ve seen all the vineyards, yes? Accordo has _so_ many local wines, but the Gabbiani Red is the pride of Litore - you won’t find better here.”

Ignis nods, handing her both menus: “Then a bottle of the red, please.”

“Right away, sirs.”

She leaves, and once again the two of them are alone, glowing in the candlelight as the vestiges of sunlight seep from the sky. There aren’t many other people around them, and the quiet lets them hear the sounds of the town nightlife gearing up below them.

“How are you feeling, Noct?” asks Ignis, steepling his fingers in front of him. There is concern faint in his voice - understandable, given that this is the farthest they’ve travelled in a long time.

“Good - got some sleep in the car, same as you. Probably going to fall into bed as soon as we get back to the villa, though.”

He has no earthly idea of what they’re going to be doing here for three weeks - eat, sleep, walk around, repeat? He wonders how long it’s going to take until he’s bored of it. He doesn’t mention the thought to Ignis though, because his friend needs a break even more than he does. Besides, he could get used to the sight of Ignis seated across from him, looking as handsome as he does in candlelight and so completely in his element.

They chat about the town, the villa, the people they’ve met so far - killing time until the server comes with the wine and a basket of breadsticks. She uncorks the bottle and sets glasses in front of them both, pouring for them with a flourish before taking off again.

Noctis takes a sip, and then completely stops to breathe, “ _Oh_. Oh - that’s amazing.”

He doesn’t have much of a palate for wine, but even he knows that this is something incredible. Ignis seems to agree, because he even reaches up to touch his fingers to his mouth as he looks at his glass: “My word. We must bring home a crate of this to Insomnia when we leave.”  

 

*

 

Not even one week into their trip and Noctis is already finding himself guiltily fantasizing about never going back to Insomnia all together, just to have _this_ everyday. He’d never actually do it, of course, he loves his city, his nation, his people - but something in his hindbrain is imagining a stay here with no time limit at all. Today, he and Ignis are walking together through the piazza, aimless, their elbows bumping against one another’s. It’s sunset and everything is cast in an orange and pink glow; he’s impatient for night to fall and for the street lamps and lanterns to light, for the people to amble outside with their mandolins and trilling singing voices.

In the morning they had gone to see a glassblowing demonstration and purchased a small set of glass bookends as a souvenir for Gladio, as well as a tiny chocobo statuette for Prompto. Standing flush at Ignis’ side in a crowded room, watching masters weaving art from molten glass had been the height of his day; Noctis thinks he could do this forever, if it were an option. No eyes on them, doing what that they wanted, in a place that made people laugh loudly and sing even louder.  

It’s legal to carry alcohol out in the open in Accordo, so the both of them have beers in their hands as they walk - _Birra Ambrosia_ , the local brew, in a classic green bottle with a label of amber and black; the favourite of the high class and quickly becoming his and Ignis’ second drink of choice in Litore, after the Gabbiani Red.

“What do you wanna do now?” Noctis asks, his bottle nearly empty and dangling lightly from his fingers as he walks. “We have a few hours until the show starts.”

“Indeed,” Ignis looks around, gaze stopping at the direction of the beach. “Shall we walk along the shore?”

Noctis nods and downs the rest of this beer, Ignis doing the same; they find a bin to toss their bottles and make their way to the beach. It’s a muggy night, so their clothes are sticking to their skin - even their new, lighter shirts and the classy trousers they’ve since purchased in town, when it became clear that their heavy Lucian fabrics were going to be hellish to wear this heat.

Ignis looks great in Accordan fashion, like an off-duty model, with his loose white shirt with the big open collar, bearing that little skull charm and - in Noctis’ opinion - an almost indecent amount of chest and collarbones. He’s even managed to find pants that look fitted without needing a tailor, in a summery beige and fastened with a brown belt. His hair is falling loose again - Ignis admitted earlier that his product doesn’t hold well in this humidity, and that he’s considering giving up altogether while they’re here; Noctis kind of wants him to, because the tousled look really works for him - but he also kind of _doesn’t_ , for the sake of his libido.  

Noctis is clad in an ensemble quite similar, though his shirt is more buttoned up - a close call with a sunburn a few days earlier has pushed him to err on the side of caution. He’d gone with a darker palette of blues and browns though, feeling too _off_ in white - it makes him look sickly, unlike Ignis, who could very well be in a catalogue for how well he’s working it.  

Noctis had to shake off the initial, innate discomfort of seeing so much white - the colour of mourning, back in Lucis. To this day the sight of Niflheimr dignitaries still brings a sense of disquiet with them when they visit the crown city, looking as they do - like tall spectres in long pale robes the colour of bones.

But white looks good on Ignis, makes him look softer, as if one’s fingers would sink right into him should he be touched.

He watches the slope of Ignis’ back as he bends to look at some shells, and an impulse blooms in his chest, bolstered by the evening sun and surf.

“Ignis,” he calls, a slow grin creeping across his face. “Don’t tip over.”

“What was th- _ah_!” Ignis nearly squawks, as Noctis launches himself onto Ignis’ back and grabs him around the shoulders. Ignis regains his footing, quick as lightning, righting himself and reaching down to the bottoms of Noctis’ thighs to hitch him up further his back.

“Awful rowdy for a king, no?” Ignis huffs, face red; he’s laughing though, just a little bit - so that’s a win.  

And Noctis laughs with him, feeling like a kid again - he doesn’t remember the last time they’ve done this. It feels like forever ago. He points to the distance, at a hill of sand: “Think you run to that without stopping?”

“Hardly a challenge,” sniffs Ignis, taking a better hold of him.

He darts into a jog, Noctis hanging off his back and grinning so big he thinks his cheeks will be sore. They pass a group of children, staring at them in astonishment - they manage keep their cool until a small voices yells, “what’re those old guys doing?”, to which their composure breaks and they both crack up, Ignis nearly falling over as his knees buckle.

Noctis has half a mind to turn his head back, to yell over his shoulder that some things are just not worth growing out of - but the sun is warm on his skin and he’s got that welcoming smell of vetiver and cedarwood in his nose, so he keeps his eyes forward and buries his laughter into Ignis’ shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted the vacation to be all in one big chapter - but then it got so big that it just looked kind of bizarre next to how small the other chapters are, so i'm splitting it i guess. please enjoy!
> 
> thanks for reading <3
> 
> (chapter title is from lana del rey's "summertime sadness" - which is what i've been mainlining as i've been writing this portion of the fic)


	9. Chapter Nine - I Feel it Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, no matter how close you are, the distance still feels unbearably vast. 
> 
> Or: Another night of dreams, and some coziness in a bookstore.

It’s a warmer night than most.

The town is hot during the day, but the nights can be cold - or so the locals complain. Tonight is a rare case, it seems.

Restlessness in tandem with the humid air keeps him from sleeping, so he gives up after an hour of tossing and turning, sweeping back the blanket and laying back against the ornate headboard. The lamp on the nightstand next to his bed is the only light source in the room other than the gleam of the moon through the open balcony doors.

Noctis doesn’t usually like sleeping without clothes, but he figures it’s time to cave into the muggy Accordan night - he pulls the sleep shirt off his back and tosses it onto the floor, relieved to feel the air against his bare chest and back.

Gladio’s penchant for shirtlessness makes a startling sort of practical sense, he thinks as he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. He glances at the towel he’d left draped over a chair in the corner of the room, the small smattering of sand on the floor underneath, and knows that he can pinpoint the cause of his restlessness to one singular, mystifying source.

They’d gone to the beach again, this time in proper shorts and sandals; Noctis had come to the realization, upon seeing Ignis’ bare legs, that he’d rarely ever been gifted with the sight of any of Ignis’ skin below the waist. He’d only ever seen the man shirtless a small handful of times, even when living close quarters on their road trip, but his legs had always been hidden behind his fitted, tidy pants and impeccable taste in shoes.

So their whole excursion to the beach had Noctis trying covertly not to fixate _too_ hard. He had only allowed himself to indulge for one moment, when Ignis had lain back on a towel reading a brochure; Noctis had greedily taken in the details of him - his shapely calves lightly dusted with pale hair, his ankles, the arches of his feet. He had very normal and unremarkable knees, but even they managed to cast a spell on Noctis’ attention, keeping him fixated like a fish to a lure.

Noctis had been slightly buzzed from drinking, and his thoughts had gone dirty instantly, imagining how easy it would’ve been to nudge those knees apart and park himself in between those gorgeous legs - easily one of Ignis’ best features, and he had many to choose from. He would’ve liked ruck the shirt up to Ignis’ underarms and bite a line down his torso, from chest to navel, mapped out like footprints in sand, until his mouth reached the waistband of his pleated shorts - where, maybe, he’d slip his hands inside from the leg holes and fondle him under the fabric, watching Ignis squirm because Ignis _never_ squirms. He would have told Ignis to keep his eyes on the brochure, tasking him with finding them a nice show to go to after Noctis finished sucking him off.  

In reality, Noctis had stood in embarrassment and ran into the water, under the pretense of needing to cool off from the sun.

Presently, the fantasy makes sends a dull throb of want all over his body, and he’s got a hand on himself, stroking slow and lazy, not yet chasing the peak - the other flies up to rub at his chest and pull at his nipples. The open door of the balcony makes him more reserved than normal, keeping his gasping low; there’s no one for miles, but the old habits drummed into him about propriety are hard to shake.

He doesn’t get very far, because a knock at his bedroom door shakes him out of his reverie, his hand flying off himself and securing the blanket over his waist; he bends his knees slightly, elevating the blanket so he’s not pitching an embarrassing tent.

“...yeah?”

“Noct, apologies, are you awake?” Ignis’ voice.

“Sure - come in.”

The invitation tumbles out of his mouth before he could think to lie, so instinctual is having Ignis in his space. His blood is roaring in his ears, and the sight of Ignis coming into his room in his sleep clothes, looking all soft with his ruffled hair and easy posture, makes his toes curl into the mattress and wetness leak from his cock. In a feat of willpower, he steels himself against bucking his hips up to chase the drive to _move_.

Noctis is not a lustful person by nature, never has been, and the betrayal of his own body is about to make him crazy.

“I...couldn’t sleep,” says Ignis, voice quiet; well-mannered, even when there’s no need for it - there’s no one in the house but them. “And I saw your light on - would you mind terribly if I asked for your company?”

Blood cooling in his veins, Noctis scoots over and pats the spot next to him: “Hey, any time - you know that.”

With a small, grateful smile Ignis settles into the spot - over the covers. _Unfortunately_ , thinks Noctis, distantly entertaining an image of them naked and under the sheets together.

“Bad dream?” he asks, adjusting his back against the headboard.

“Bad dream.” Ignis confirms.

Ignis doesn’t get them as much as Noctis does and not nearly as intense, but they catch up to him on occasion.

“Want to talk about it?” asks Noctis, lightly.

Ignis hesitates, mouth pursed - then shakes his head. It makes his hair fly against his cheeks; instead of reaching up to smooth it back like he - desperately, achingly - wants to, Noctis clasps his hands in front of himself, tapping his thumbs together. Ignis doesn’t open up about his dreams much, always so stubborn about venting when he’s having a bad time - it’s his worst trait, Noctis thinks, that Ignis is always so much more willing to handle other people’s problems than acknowledge his own. All of his secrets are in that head of his, closed off, locked away tight with the key gods knows where.

“How about _I_ read to you tonight then?” he says, nudging him with his elbow. Ignis raises a brow - and fair enough, Noctis doesn’t usually do the reading during their sessions, but he figures he could shake things up once in a while and give him a break.

“Not a book though,” he continues as he leans over and reaches for his phone - getting up to find a book would mean taking the blanket off his lap and _that_ is not an option. He quickly pulls up a page and shows it to Ignis, who snorts in disbelief -

“That is little better than a tabloid, Noct.”

“You bet it is,” Noctis grins, finding a trending news page. “Hmm...let’s see who the ‘Top 10 Citadel Icons Who Should Do a Swimsuit Shoot’ are, eh?”

“I doubt there will be any revelations,” says Ignis, blandly. “Gladio will be in the top spot.”

“Yeah well, that’s how all these things go,” Noctis waves him off. “But I wanna see where everyone else lands - got any bets on your placement, Iggy?”

“Top five,” Ignis quips, instantly. “Easily.”

He’s looking down his nose at the phone like he’s daring it to choose differently, and Noctis chokes down a laugh: “All right, let’s just see then.”

It’s a good way to kill time, and to pull the tight line of stress from Ignis’ shoulders. The amused smirk that crawls along Ignis’ mouth when a particularly salacious description pops up is worth not being able to finish himself off. Besides, nothing like reading someone’s lewd description of Prompto’s rear (“I can’t _believe_ someone called it ‘perky’ - I’m sending this to him as soon as we’re done, Iggy, he’s going to laugh himself to death.”) to kill his arousal.

“Wait - I didn’t break the top five?” Noctis squawks upon seeing himself placed at #6. He rushes on to read the description under his photo: “‘No list would be complete without the King of Lucis himself - and saviour to the whole world, no less! - and lucky for us Lucians, our monarch is one fine piece. What he _lacks in stature_ he makes up for with those gorgeous eyes and _surprisingly impressive_ beard!’”     

Noctis drops the phone on his lap and sputters, “‘Lacks in stature’?! _Lacks in_ \- just because I’m not a _tree_ like you or Gladio doesn’t make me short!”

He zeroes in on Ignis, eyes blazing, who is covering his mouth with his hand - it’d be an impressive display of control, if the fine tremors running along his shoulders didn’t give him away.

“I am not short!”

“I haven’t said a thing, Noct,” Ignis says, his voice trembling with laughter. “Not a thing.”

“Tell me I’m not short.”

“Not short on indignance, perhaps.”

“Iggy! I trusted you!”

“Your first mistake, Majesty.”

Noctis grabs his pillow and makes a show of shoving it at Ignis’ head, and he gets a surprised yelp for his efforts. For a few blissful seconds they’re having something akin to a pillow fight - not that he’d ever, ever admit it aloud - and the sound of Ignis’ voice having fun, far away from that morose drawl it was when he came in, makes something in his heart sing. When they settle down again, Ignis’ cheeks are flushed and his hair is positively wild from his scrambling - it’s a good look. Noctis thinks he’d like to see it spread out against the black of his own sheets back at home, mussed from from his own greedy hands.

 _Gods, I’m in so deep_.

“Ugh, moving on,” he grouses, picking up his phone and scrolling down the page. “Though I’m declaring this list invalid, by the way.”

“Is that a royal decree?” quips Ignis, eyes bright and mouth smiling.

“Thinking about it, to be honest.”

“That would be a flagrant abuse of power,” Ignis leans back against the headrest again, eyes hooded. It looks like he’s getting sleepy, and Noctis figures it’s time to wrap things up.

“The people would understand.”

They make their way through the top five, and lo and behold, Ignis is placed at third - “Ah, not bad at all - I’m glad this magazine has some measure of taste.” “Must be nice. Being tall.” “Well, the tops of people’s heads do become a rather tiring sight after a while.” “Shut up, Iggy.” - outpaced by Cor, of all people, at second and Gladio at first. Noctis clicks his phone back to sleep mode and looks over at Ignis, whose head is beginning to droop. Time to call it a night, it seems.

“Getting sleepy?” he asks, settling back too and watching the lamplight play across his features. The shadows pull his scars into sharp relief, that little dash across the bridge of his nose and the little nick at the corner of his lip. The ones that interrupt the steady lines of his brows. Ridiculously, Noctis feels an urge to rub his thumb at those spots, to see if he could smooth them off the canvas of his skin.

“Ah, it would seem so,” Ignis murmurs, shuffling in his spot. “Thank you for your company, Noct…”

“Yeah, whenever you need…” Noctis bites the inside of his cheek as he considers whether or not to ask his next question, and in a moment of weakness, decides to go for it. “Y’know, you can just crash here, if you want…”

Something skitters across Ignis’ eyes lightning fast, an expression that disappears too quickly for Noctis to catch, and he hesitates, looking to Noctis and then glancing away again. His fingers clench on the sheets in an aborted movement before relaxing again, laying themselves flat, as though in supplication. Noctis is so busy watching his hands that he doesn’t see Ignis’ eyes roving down his form, lingering on his exposed chest, before fluttering away with something akin to embarrassment.

“Thank you,” he says, soft and quiet. “But I’ll leave you the room to stretch, shall I?”

Noctis nods, looking away: “Sure.”

With that, Ignis stands, taking a moment to stretch his limbs before making his way to the door. He turns, murmuring a goodnight, and clicks the door gently behind himself. Noctis gives it a few seconds before he releases a guttural sigh, flicking off the lamp with irritation.    

 

*

 

Near the end of their first week, they are introduced to the proprietor of the Gabbiani vineyard, Floro - a jovial older man with smile lines and truly impressive beard. He’s ecstatic to learn that the Lucian king - and _saviour of all Eos_ \- is impressed with his wine, and vows to send along as many crates as Noctis desires when they leave. Noctis can feel Ignis itching to start crafting some trade agreements to ensure the stuff gets imported on a large scale.

“There is a show tonight,” says Floro, clasping his hands together. “If you are amenable Your Majesty, Lord Scientia, please - come by!”

In addition to his vineyard Floro owns a bookstore-slash-cafe in the heart of the town, where shows are frequently held - live music, book and poetry readings, art demonstrations, the like - and the collection on the shelves are supposed to be one-of-a-kind; Ignis is interested immediately, and Noctis figures that’s that for their evening plans.

Ignis had gone ahead, letting Noctis grab more time for a nap and a shower. The walk to the town centre is soothing, the smells and sounds of nature taking him to a new plane of mellow; he wonders if he’ll ever manage to de-stress like this once they’re back in the crown city, and decides to savour the moment by taking his sweet time.

When he reaches the shop, Noctis sweeps aside the curtain of beads that separates the cafe from the store, looking around until he spots Ignis’ tall figure - a vision in white. He’s got a bottle of _Birra Ambrosia_ in one hand, and between the long fingers of the other is a cigarillo. His glasses are off for tonight, and without them his eyes are huge and striking, even from across the room. He’s talking animatedly with the shopkeeper, hair completely down from its usual style and falling messily into his face as he moves. When Noctis makes his way closer, he can see that the humidity is making it curl a little by his ears, and Noctis wants to reach over and sweep it back to study the spot where the lobe curves then connects to his jaw; maybe follow it with his mouth, after, like he’s tracing the lines of a masterpiece, flattering it with his own clumsy admiration.

How can feeling like this be invigorating yet exhausting, all at once? How did people not burn themselves out from the inside, doing this time and time again?

He sidles up to the two of them, smiling back as they greet him. Floro extends a wooden plate, one that looks like it’s been hacked straight off a tree; it offers an array of impeccable canapes, he picks one with a nod of thanks. He also helps himself to a bottle of _Ambrosia_ , tucked atop a mound of ice in the bucket next to their table, popping off it’s lid with a flair. The man bows back, gratified, before wandering away to speak to the other patrons and leaving the two of them alone.

“I’ve never seen you smoke before,” he says, gesturing to the cigarillo. “Not picking up bad habits out of stress, are you Specs?”

“Heavens no,” laughs Ignis, voice low. In the dim light of the store, looking so relaxed, he’s painfully handsome. “But when in Accordo, as they say…”

Noctis chuckles and plucks it from Ignis’ fingers to take a puff. He’s not into this kind of thing, but as Ignis says, when in Accordo, do as the Accordans do. He doesn’t cough, thankfully, letting the smoke curl in his mouth - the taste is woody and very, very expensive.

“Hm,” he releases the last of the smoke and hands it back. It looks better in Ignis’ hands than his. “Yeah, not really my thing. Can see why you’re into it though. Real classy.”

“It’s nearly impossible to find the stuff in Lucis,” says Ignis, taking a sip from his beer. “Though probably for the best - I would hate to develop a habit,” then he leans over, voice conspiratorial and wry. “I don’t have nearly enough poetry or screenplays to my name to justify drowning in such vices all day.”

Noctis snorts and barks a laugh, enjoying his friend’s impish grin - and that little line at the side of his mouth. There you are, he thinks, haven’t seen you in a while.  

“‘Nearly enough’, huh? So you do _have_ poetry and screenplays,” he quips, taking his own drink and watching the people mill about around the shelves. “Are you a secret award-winning author, topping the Lucis Times Bestsellers list? Have you actually been Septima Dion this whole time, writing in secret?”

Partly, he asks a joke, but his recent awakening to the shades of Ignis’ life outside Noctis makes the question genuine. He thinks of Ignis’ artist and writer friends, the signed paintings and yellowing postcards back in his office, and wonders if Ignis has created things among their number, accomplished things that he’s never shared with Noctis because Noctis never thought to ask, assuming that Ignis would just tell him these things himself all these years. But he never did, and it stings just a little bit.

Ignis is too refined to roll his eyes, but he does snort. “Not so much,” he says. “But I’ve...dabbled.”

“Wait, really?”

“Why so surprised? One can’t subsist only on academic and court work all the time.”

“You never mentioned any of it.”

“It was always in a hobbyist capacity,” Ignis takes a drag and the smoke curls out of his mouth like he’s releasing secrets to the wild.

“Still,” says Noctis, kind of disappointed. “I would have liked to hear about it - you can tell me these things, y’know.” _You_ should _tell me these things, tell me everything about you_.

“Also,” Ignis cuts in. “...I’m not very good at it.”

“Yeah right, you’re good at everything.”

“Not so, Noct, but your confidence is flattering.”

“So you’re saying you’re embarrassed?”

“Very.”

“Oh come on,” Noctis shoves him lightly on the shoulder. “It can’t be that bad. Any of it in the shop?”

Ignis pointedly doesn’t respond and takes another pull, looking slightly harried. For all his claims about his lack of artistry, he certainly looks like an artist now - like the ones from the old movies, with their tousled hair and beautiful hands and smoke curling from their mouths while they pinched their brows at some metaphysical problem that only they can solve, so grand and sharp are their minds.

“Noted - let’s do some treasure hunting.”

“Must we?”

“Oh, we _must_.”

He takes Ignis by the wrist, the hand holding the cigarillo, taking care not to jostle him too much and send the contents of his drink flying. Ignis grumbles, full of fond exasperation - that language that he and Noctis share between themselves - and follows. Noctis pulls him along row after row of shelves, a little lost because the shop doesn’t demarcate the books according to genre or author surnames; looking for “Scientia” among their number is a lot harder than he’d assumed.

“Come on, give me a hint,” mutters Noctis, taking another swig and looking at line of historical non-fiction bearing distinctly Niflheimr author names; definitely not here.

“There’s only one,” he says, looking to the ceiling and avoiding Noctis’ gaze. “In a compilation among other authors; you’ll not find anything written by me alone.”

“Oh, well you should’ve said.”

“The point is to _not_ have you find it, Noct.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Iggy,” he turns and gives him a pointed look and a mean little smile. “Y’know, I could pull it up on my phone anyway, right? Why prolong the inevitable?”

He brushes his fingers across his beard, feeling smug at the look on his friend’s face.

“You are the cruelest of kings, Your Majesty,” Ignis says, overdramatic. “Utterly cruel, to pick on me so.”

Ignis shakes his head and sighs, and Noctis just loves these moments when Ignis gives in to him. He puts the cigarillo between his lips and uses his free hand to guide Noctis by the waist down a few more aisles, as though he can make sense of the disorganization and knows exactly where he’s going; Noctis follows happily, excited to get what he wants and also enjoying the feeling of Ignis’ hand on him, warm and familiar.

Strange, how they’ve touched each other a thousand times, and yet now Noctis feels each new one like a revelation.

They stop, and Ignis points with the hand that’s holding his glass - at a thick burgundy hardcover tome. Noctis pulls it from its slot and looks over the cover: “Into the Dark We Go: Poems, Stories, and Essays on Matters of the Heart” edited and compiled by D. Damiano and Xanthe Yun Fang.

Ignis removes the cigarillo from his mouth and takes a particularly large gulp of his drink as Noctis reads the title aloud.

Noctis sputters, _delighted_ : “Holy shit Ignis, you wrote a love poem!”

“I did no such thing!” Ignis shout-whispers, his expression urgent and frantic like nothing Noctis has ever seen, and smoke streams back and forth around their heads as he gesticulates. “I’ll have you know my contribution was an _essay_ deconstruction on Amis Cotillard’s magnum opus on love, _not_ poetry.”

“Wait,” Noctis starts, wide-eyed. “You contributed to a book of poems and stories - about _love_ \- and you _still_ wrote an _essay_?”

Ignis doesn’t flail, not exactly, but his arms make an aborted movement as though they were well on their way. Noctis has the presence of mind not to laugh.

“Bear in mind,” Ignis says archly, face clearly hot with embarrassment. Noctis has never heard Ignis’ voice go _shrill_ before, and it isn’t quite there just yet, but he imagines that a few more minutes of this that it just might. “I was nineteen, hardly practised, and slipped - against my better judgement and as a favour to a dear friend - into an anthology curated by the great and most elite wordsmiths of the continent. I was not about to make a fool of myself trying my hand at _poetry_.”

“Still though,” Noctis grins at him, face still betraying his disbelief. “Not even in the ‘spirit of the season’, so they say?”

Ignis shakes his head, lips pinched. After a moment of silence, with Noctis looking at Ignis and Ignis looking pointedly off into the distance, his friend’s shoulders finally sag as he mutters: “The only thing close to a poem I’ve ever published in my life is in my dedication, and even that, only grudgingly.”

There’s something slightly more serious about the way he confesses it, a layer to his words that Noctis doesn’t know the form of, but still feels its presence. He looks down at the book in his hands, at the classy, minimalist cover and wonders what has Ignis so on the defensive. Slowly, he cracks it open to the table of contents, scanning for Ignis’ name - “Cotillard’s Summation of Obsessive Love, Deconstructed” by Ignis Scientia - before flipping over to the appropriate page, a dedication in curved, sophisticated typeface:

 

_This collection speaks to the matters of the heart,_

_Yet, I bare no secrets of my own in these pages,_

_Save for, perhaps, its subject;_

_And so, in the interest of fairness,_

_Here I dedicate this piece to “you”_

 

_To you, seat of my soul, night to my firelight,_

_Who sleeps on my cinders,_

_And to whom, I give all of me_

 

_If you would,_

_place your heart next to mine,_

_and we could watch them beat together --_

\-- I. Scientia

 

Noctis feels the fond smile on his own face even as something twists off-kilter in his chest, two opposing emotions, manifesting in the different spaces of him. He turns his head up to look at Ignis, whose cheeks are rosy and utterly fetching in the dim light. “So you _are_ a romantic,” he says, sly even as he feels the breath leave his body. He leans his head against the shelf, looking up at Ignis at an angle, like he’s studying a great work of art, imagining making the shape of him from marble - a supple figure that bends for nothing, except Noctis’ touch, perhaps.

When he had been asking around about love he hadn’t approached Ignis, though the temptation was there and he’d nearly given into it many times. Now, in a cosy bookstore in Accordo, he gets his answer. It both is and isn’t what he wanted to hear, because there’s a childish feeling of hope in his belly that Ignis could feel the same way - and could very well not, and he’s not entirely sure which would be worse.  

“Surely that’s not a surprise,” Ignis demurs. He’s not making eye-contact, a rarity for him. They’re standing so close that he can smell tobacco on Ignis’ breath, amidst the woody aroma of books; Noctis leans closer, still, because it feels like his heart could burst through his chest and even the tiniest of distances feels too vast to endure, too painful to consider.  

He’s cute when he’s embarrassed. It kind of makes Noctis want to ruffle his feathers even more, find the spots that would make him twitch and blush and sputter. Is this what they mean by “pulling pigtails”?

“Well,” he says, looking back down at the words on the page. “Prompto’s obviously a romantic - and Gladio gets there sometimes, even if he likes to play up being the Tough Guy.”

He looks back up and watches Ignis take a sip from his drink, continuing, “But you’ve always seemed like you weren’t into that kind of thing.”

Ignis does this thing - where he curls the hand holding his bottle in toward his chest, like he’s cradling it, protecting it from the world; the motion draws in his shoulders and shrinks his silhouette, making him smaller, more delicate. He looks vulnerable, and the image is a lie because Noctis knows just how strong his friend really is. Strong enough to face the devil in the guts of an enemy base and still come out kicking, ready to wrap his fingers around the throat of the world.     

“I don’t climb towers and scream ballads into the night, perhaps,” murmurs Ignis, looking down at the book in Noctis’ hands, something faraway in his eyes. This is as close as Noctis can get without disrupting propriety - but gods, he wants reach up and _make_ Ignis look at him, draw that sharp gaze back to his own and never let him look away again. “But I love in my own way.”

 

*

 

It’s been a while since he’s had one of the nightmares, but the one - and only one - that pops into his head during their stay in Litore is a nasty one: a confrontation he was never a part of, a desperate tirade he was never meant to see.  

“ _\- Even if it costs my own life to save him...I will pay that price_!”

He seizes awake, to the sensation of cold sweat and tightness in his limbs; it’s a trick of the mind, but he almost feels the burning of the ring in the underlayer of his skin. He rubs at his face, his eyes, his mouth - gets up from the bed, and shambles to the bedroom balcony. Right now, the chill is just what he needs, to wake him up and pull him further from that horrible vision. He can sharply recall the sound of Ignis’ voice in it, that roiling, angry rasp of desperation that he never wants to hear again.

Normally, he’d seek Ignis out after such a dream - have tea with him and whisper in the dark about soothing things, read books together, sometimes play the piano. But tonight, he doesn’t think he can bear it, not without falling into his arms and begging him to never again consider trading the world for his sake.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't you just love that heady self-indulgence? i sure do.


	10. Chapter Ten - Found The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow is the burn, yet we fast become ash.
> 
> Week 2 on the beaches of sandy, vibrant Accordo - epiphanies are had, and Noctis unleashes his inner bully.

Meditation amidst the rolling hills of the Accordan countryside just might spoil Noctis on the whole process when he has to go back home, he thinks. He could get used to sitting on this balcony, with nothing but nature for miles ahead of him - and in the distance, Litore’s skyline.   

He’s remembers, on the first few weeks of their trip to Altissia, being equal parts amazed and perturbed at just how quiet the world outside of Insomnia was. He’d grown up in the city, been there his whole life, and the absence of noise - honking cars and running trains, music from inside stores and bars, thousands of footsteps in any given district, and even the lowkey electric humming of neon lights - had made him felt displaced, as though floating in water. Prompto had been unable to sleep for the first few days, whispering to him one night that he couldn’t settle without the noise.

Getting used to the silence of nature gave him a taste for it, as much as he loves the crown city. Even the gardens up on the tower don’t get this peaceful.

Even when he finishes, he doesn’t get up right away, leaning back on his palms and watching the breeze ruffle the trees in the courtyard below.

He looks beside him, at the book he left next to his hip - the copy of “Into the Dark We Go” he bought from the bookstore the same night he found out Ignis’ secret. He recalls the furious blush on his friend’s face when he’d brought it to the counter, asking Floro if he could borrow a pen, and making Ignis autograph it for him - the bland, unimpressed look he’d been given was completely worth it.

Thinking about the dedication was what brought him to meditate this morning in the first place, needing to clear his mind of the spiraling thoughts in his head, brought on by all manner of unhealthy emotions: the heady curiosity of Ignis at nineteen and in love, the jealousy that it might be for someone else, the double-edged happiness that it might be for _him_. So many pieces clashing together, breathing life to the storm in his head, with Ignis at the eye.

 

*

 

There’s another show tonight, at a large tavern in Litore’s town centre. The place is owned by Floro’s sister, another piece in the small empire the Gabbianis have built for themselves, and is spacious enough to have two levels: the ground floor, where the tables have been moved to the walls to create an impromptu dance floor and an upper level, balcony-like in design, where patrons lean against the wooden railings with drinks in their hands and cigarettes in their fingers as they look down at the throng.

The pre-show is a well-known band from Galahd, singing traditional music from the homeland - a thrumming anthem with a high tempo, bolstered by twanging strings and powerful percussion, which the rabble enthusiastically claps alongside. Distantly, Noctis thinks he might have heard them on the radio before, from even before the fall of Insomnia - and the energy from their fans certainly speaks to their fame. He and Ignis have given up any pretense of sitting back and looking dignified after many glasses of wine, pulled in by the other patrons to dance in the middle of the crowd.

He’s not sure he’s ever gotten to cut loose this much in his life - always watched as he was by the press. University parties had been few and far in between for him, pulled this way and that between meetings and duties to the crown. Whenever he’d make it to one, the pressures of propriety would make him the resident wallflower, watching from the sidelines as others got up to the kinds of things that would make for wild stories the day after.

Now though, tucked into a writhing mass of bodies dancing to music so loud he can’t even hear his own voice - everyone seems too drunk to care about paying him or Ignis any mind. And it’s _amazing_.

He thinks perhaps he’s going to ache tomorrow - but he feels alive in a way he hasn’t in years.

Between the many glasses of Gabbiani Red and the rowdiness of the other patrons, the music and the heat, the two of somehow end up in the heart of the throng, curled around each other. Noctis thinks, very seriously, that he could die in this moment and be fine with it.

They’re both incredibly drunk, and the bodies around them push them ever closer together into a cocoon of heat - and for Noctis, desperate _want_.

He’s sure he could just float away, because Ignis is so close and there’s that cologne again - sharp and different in this foreign place where the smells are spicier, warmer. Ignis’ nose is in his hair and he’s murmuring something, laughing breathlessly, that cultured voice of his fading into the din so Noctis can’t quite make it out. So instead, he imagines his own version, words he’d like to hear to fill in the blanks: “ _I’ve loved you all this time_ ” or “ _confess to me and I’ll confess right back_ ” or “ _place your heart next to mine and we could watch them beat together_ ”. Not at all what Ignis is saying, surely not. It doesn’t matter though, not at all, because the feeling of lips in his hair feels impossibly nice - as do his fingers, running across his scalp and jolting shivers down his back - and self-indulgence is the theme of the night. Is Ignis a handsy drunk? Noctis definitely is, they can be handsy together; together, together, together.

He thinks of them going back to Insomnia, his beautiful city resplendent in gunmetal grey and elegant black, the beating heart of Lucis, and he feels something like soreness deep in his chest. They’ll leave this tiny, earthy place; they’ll see the clay-brown and white sands fade into the horizon, and have to go back to traditions, the taboos ever present between them. Like the old wall of Insomnia, made manifest again.

And he knows he’s being ridiculous, because he hasn’t even _told_ Ignis yet. Can’t be sure that Ignis would return his feelings but as always, Noctis thinks about the future - as he always has, because the future has always been ever dreadful.  

He tilts his head back, looking up at Ignis and sees those hazy eyes looking back at him. His breath is hot, sweet with Gabbiani Red, and puffs against Noctis’ own lips. What temptation; the old masters of Accordo would’ve found a muse in Ignis Scientia, certainly.

Of course he wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t breach that line between them, can’t - even as drunk as he is. Instead, he flirts with transgression and nuzzles the line of Ignis’ jaw with his nose, breathing in deep the scent of his skin, the natural one under the cologne, under the soap, under the earthiness of Litore’s air. Under and in, deep into his bones, if he could.

Ignis hums along to the music, and Noctis reaches up to place the pads of his fingertips lightly on the bump of his throat, feeling the way it rumbles as he does. Ignis’ thumbs are stroking along the shells of Noctis’ ears, firm enough to feel them, light enough to make him shiver.

Maybe they could kiss here and leave it behind them when they return home. Maybe it would sate him, something he could carry in his teeth from then on.

Ignis nudges his nose with his own, and their lips are close enough that the maybes are starting to look like “yes, yes please yes”.

The spell is broken when a woman bumps into them, a splash of her wine falling from her cup and onto Noctis’ bare arm. The two of them jump apart, and the woman begins to flail in apology.

“ _Scusa! Scusa!_ ” she cries, wiping at his arm with the sleeve of her long blouse.

“Hey, it’s all right - don’t worry about it,” he says, waving down her concern.

When she leaves and he turns back to look at Ignis, he’s catches his friend absently touching his own throat - the place where Noctis’ fingers had been, and looking dazedly out into the crowd, licking his lips. He looks, Noctis’ treacherous mind thinks, turned on.

And though the moment has passed and they’re being ushered to their seats for the main event - the thought keeps him preoccupied the rest of the night.

 

*

 

The villa is quiet enough that their steps up the stairs makes the wood creak and moan, and the hiss of his hand sliding on the banister is louder than a thundercrack; by the time Noctis reaches the top he’s sure that the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end, feeling as he can the weight everything he wants and almost got to have tonight.

Ignis’ room is closest to the stairs, and his friend pauses in turning the knob. He can see Ignis’ mind working, wonders if he’s in as much turmoil as Noctis is. When Ignis turns to him, something undefined in his eyes, Noctis wills him to invite him in.

 _Open it_ , he thinks, commandingly, urgently. _Ask me inside and I’ll come in; I’ll do whatever you want_.

“Goodnight, Noct,” he says instead, turning toward the room and giving Noctis the broad expanse of his back.

It must be the wine, maybe be the headiness of the show, or even the smell of Ignis on his clothes - that prompts Noctis to reach out and brace his hand on the closing door, stopping it in its tracks; Ignis’ eyes widen, owl-like in the night, and his lips part in question.

Noctis feels his mouth open, but his teeth catch on the words - _please kiss me, please let me touch you_ \- as his heart thunders in his chest. What is he doing.

But there’s a look on Ignis’ face, that even in through his drunken haze and the darkness of the villa Noctis has enough of a mind to zero in on - past the wine-flush on his cheeks, the hungry black of his pupils, the rosy, wet part of his lips; it’s open, vulnerable and _expectant_.

It’s with a sudden, blazing clarity that Noctis just _knows_ : he could reach past the threshold, dip his fingertips into the heat of Ignis’ mouth, follow it with the rest of his body, and Ignis would -

Ignis would let him.

If he asks, Ignis will open his door for him, let him come inside and take what he wants. He could have it, right now, if he lets himself be just a little bit irresponsible.

If he lets himself be selfish enough to let it all come tumbling down over their heads.

Swaying, head light with wine and lust and revelations, he leans against the doorframe, looking up at Ignis through his hair and says instead, “Goodnight.”

His own voice, he thinks, sounds raw and wretched with longing.

He moves away and turns around as the door slips closed, shutting away the temptation of Ignis’ flushed face and faintly trembling hands.

When Noctis pushes into his own room, it takes seconds for him to pull the pants off his legs. He’s hard, frustrated, turned on beyond belief; he can still smell vetiver and cedarwood like a ghost on his own skin, can still remember what Ignis’ breath felt like. They’d been so close to coming together, mouths first, questions later. He could almost taste what it would’ve been like, those lips that keeps making a mess of him even though they’ve never even touched.

He falls back onto the bed with a hand already on himself, hard strokes that have him panting, open mouthed and desperate nearly instantly, eyes fluttering and struggling to stay open. The old walls bounces all his noise back at him like an accusation, and even in his haze he hopes Ignis can’t hear from across the hall - or perhaps he does. Something a little brittle inside him _does_ want it, wants Ignis to know. Wants Ignis to feel as torn up about this thing as Noctis does.

His other hand reaches up and slips over his own eyes, blocking out the sight of the bedroom, pressing down hard enough to make splashes of colour against the blackness of his lids. He can almost see the party again, see himself and Ignis back on the floor - only this time, he’s less of a coward and goes for it, taking Ignis’ mouth with his own and sealing them together, like they have always been in every way but this; better late than never at all. And there is not a chance he could have felt Ignis’ lips at that moment without dragging him by his shirt back to the villa, forgoing the show all together and throwing him on the bed.

This bed, where he squirms under his own hand, by himself with Ignis only a few rooms away. He doesn’t call out Ignis’ name when he comes, nothing so crass, just gasps and shakes apart, hand over his own eyes because he’s not sure how much more of this he stand to face.

 

*   

 

Hangovers were never really part of his routine - even during his brief stint in university before getting pulled out to get married; they were always the problems of other people, the ones without the future of the country hanging over their heads. This morning, as his eyes open and the sensation in his head intensifies, he thinks he might owe Gladio an apology for all the times he’d teased him about being hungover during some of their hangouts. Fucking _Six_ \- did someone come in during the night and drop bricks on his head?

Noctis has always been a slow riser, content to take his time. Though he’s not the chronic sleeper he was in his younger days, it still takes him ages to fully wake.

He cranes his head to look at the clock - 10:13am; later than he’s woken in a while, since he took the throne. The desire to close his eyes again to attempt to sleep off the hangover is strong, but he knows that’s just wishful thinking.

With a groan, he lifts himself from the bed, running a hand through his hair and his beard before stumbling over to the adjoining washroom. He brushes his teeth with great effort, blearing looking at himself in the mirror and cataloguing the shadows and lines on his face. His hair has always been volatile, and taking a comb to it this morning does little to make him look more presentable, so he gives up and hopes their plans for today are on the mellow side.

He can smell coffee before he even reaches the stairs, signalling that - as always - he’s the last to rise.   

“You look as bad as I feel,” quips Noctis as soon as he sees Ignis at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands and looking like Death itself worked him over and left very little behind. He’s never seen Ignis so disheveled in his life; it might’ve been funny if Noctis’ head wasn’t pulsing in sympathy.

“I could say the same about you, Majesty,” Ignis retorts - and heavens, his voice is wrecked. With how the words drag and rasp, Noctis imagines scorch marks in the interior of his throat.

He waves to Giulia, who is finishing up their breakfast - two plates of brioche and a bowl of fruit to share. She places them onto the table with silverware, and then waves goodbye as she leaves, giving the two hungover men space.

Ignis has a glass of water set out for Noctis with some pills. He makes a beeline for them and downs them gratefully, whispering his thanks. Ignis only nods, head in his hands and eyes closed. Even with bedhead and bags under his eyes, Ignis still manages to look unfairly good, as though the whole look were intentional. Like a long-suffering protagonist of a mystery novel, clad in fitted clothes and pathos.  

And the thought brings last night back into his mind, how very close to kissing they got and how unbearable he’d felt when they’d been interrupted. Of his own weak fumbling in his bed, after that.

What now - do they talk about it? Forget it happened? He’s not sure what Ignis even remembers.

And there’s that new, burning kernel of knowledge in him that Ignis reciprocates - or at least, is open to the idea. He hadn’t imagined it, couldn’t have, the feeling of Ignis’ hands on him, his breath on his face, their skin flush against each other. The way Ignis looked at him from the doorway of his bedroom - in that moment, wanting it just as much as Noctis does.

If they were any other people, Noctis would have kissed him last night, hands on his face and tongue in his mouth like a siege, as messy and desperate as he feels. But they’re not, both of them bound by duties beyond either of them - and so, here he stands, nursing a glass of water in his hands and trying desperately not to fall into Ignis’ lap, to set his teeth upon that long, pale throat and taste the sweat on his skin.

Knowing all the while that Ignis would only bend his head further back, baring more and letting Noctis pillage and take.

“Is there something on your mind, Noct?” asks Ignis, finally looking at him. He can’t read the expression on that beloved face, can’t tell if Ignis is egging him into the conversation he desperately wants to have but can’t initiate - or, if he’s just curious because Noctis has been standing there spacing out for who knows how long.

“No,” he lies. “Nothing’s on my mind.”

Ignis watches him for a moment, eyes fathomless, before turning away and primly sipping his coffee: “All right.”

He sounds disappointed.

 

*

 

Armed with new information, the rest of their second week has him cataloguing a series of new moments, under a different lens, a different slant of light. Or, as Ignis might call it perhaps, a tweak in his methodology.

One: a night at Floro’s cafe, winding down after a full day of vineyard tours and artisan pottery demonstrations; Ignis popped a cigarillo into his mouth and Noctis beat him to his zippo to light it for him, playful, teasing. It’s the way that Ignis’ eyelashes fluttered, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed - all in a fraction of a second - that arrested Noctis’ attention as he leaned over, why he filed the moment away for later.

Two: when Noctis complained about dry lips, and Ignis fished in his own pockets for a tube of lip balm - always so prepared. Noctis held Ignis’ stare as he glided it over his lips and - perhaps he was feeling a little combative at the time, a little mean about it - kept holding it as he leaned over and slide the tube back into Ignis’ pocket.   

Three: lunch at a pizzeria with outdoor seating, near the beach, watching people bunting a ball back and forth over a big net. There’d been a tall woman with long, shapely legs among their number. Noctis had only been checking her out in a vague, distracted way - not entirely present, but distantly appreciative. Ignis had caught him at it and teasingly remarked on his “ogling”, to which Noctis had responded that he liked the sight of long legs - eyes trained on Ignis’ as he did.

Ignis, to his credit, hadn’t blushed - only cleared his throat and swiftly changed the subject.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we still got another week of this, y'all. 
> 
> on another note: the song i imagine in the tavern is "calling to the rain" from the kingsglaive soundtrack.


	11. Chapter Eleven - Interlude, Or: I Get by With a Little Help From my Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the radio silence - but I'm back! chapter got a little big so i split it, please enjoy!

Ignis is out in the town attending an advanced cooking class when Noctis figures it’s time to get another opinion; dealing with it on his own is liable to send him to an early grave, it’s beginning to feel like. 

He schedules a call with Prompto ahead of time via text message - “hey, gonna drop a bomb on you - got time to call tonight?” “anything for you, my liege~!” - and settles down on the couch on the balcony, watching Severo and the villa’s gardener do their work below tending to the orange trees. It’s a blazing hot afternoon, the sun unobscured with no clouds in sight, and Noctis has allowed himself the chance to play hooky from his image training and wear his shirt completely unbuttoned, bearing his sweaty skin to the air in hopes of catching a stray breeze.

He dials Prompto’s number, and hearing his friend pick up on the other end soothes something anxious in his chest. 

“Yo!” 

“Hey Prompto,” Noctis leans back against his seat, smiling to himself. “Thanks for this.”

“Hey, I’m glad!” Prompto laughs. “I was beginning to think you’d be running off to Accordo permanently for a second there.”

“Been tempted.”

They both pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to begin the conversation. Noctis can hear the sound of Prompto making coffee in the background and asks, “Isn’t it the middle of the night over there?”

“Got some documents to read later,” he says, chipper. “Been putting it off, but don’t tell anyone. I just got a little distracted planning my next trip to Tenebrae, y’know?”  

“How’s Ravus doing?”

“He’s good,” there’s the clinking of a coffee spoon against the mug - Prompto never took it without cream and sugar. “He’s got the whole garden at the castle revamped; it was his pet project for the last year. I’m pretty stoked to see it.”

Severo and the gardener are having an argument about something, their hands flailing at a patch of flowers. 

There’s a rasp of leather and fabric as Prompto sits down on his couch and finally, he asks, “So, what’s the emergency?”

Noctis finds himself wishing he had Prompto’s ability to talk about his feelings, even if it’s something that Prompto had to work on himself - Noctis remembers that night on the hotel rooftop, the hesitant, awkward way his friend had opened up about his thoughts. Since then he’s only gotten better at it, more confident at spelling out how he feels about things - it’s little wonder he’s so good at his new job. It never came easy to Noctis, a skill he’d never thought to feel envious of until now. 

Noctis wonders if fighting for your life for ten years in darkness is what it takes to kick the self-consciousness out of a person. 

_ I’ll pass, thanks _ . 

“This time, it’s my turn to tell you that you can tell me anything. Lay it on me, Noct, I can take whatever you dish out.” Comes Prompto’s voice, pulling him from his doubts. 

He takes a breath, figures it’s time to stop beating around the bush, and murmurs, “I may, or may not, be in love with Ignis.” 

The sudden quiet on the other end lets him imagine what emotions may be playing on Prompto’s face, like a stop motion movie: blink, blink again, mouth parting, realization hitting, and awkward awareness settling all over him. He can hear the shifting, imagines Prompto crossing his arms and then uncrossing them again, and Noctis feels a bloom of sympathy spread from his chest - it’s a bomb, he knows. 

“I - well,” Prompto lets out a breath, and it sounds like it’s being punched out of him. “Wow, you don’t go small do you, Noct?”

“When did I ever?”

Prompto stays quiet for moment, like he’s searching for a joke somewhere in his fraught voice - finding none, he says, “That why you’ve been acting so weird for months now?”

“How have I been acting weird?”

“Well, y’know,” he mutters, and Noctis doesn’t have to imagine the awkward shrug that probably accompanies it. “Quiet - er,  _ quieter _ , I guess. And mopey.”

“I’m not mopey!”

“Dude,” Prompto says, in a pointed tone, one that tells him he’s being unreasonable. “You’ve always been kind of broody but like, these past few months you’ve seriously kicked it up a notch. Trust me, I know. Best friend, remember?” 

Noctis sighs, running a hand across his beard. 

“I guess this makes sense though,” murmurs Prompto, as if thinking aloud. “Figured if it was anyone it was probably going to be Ignis.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me, you’re the one that’s in love with him,” the way Prompto says it is so easy, like it’s the simplest thing in the world - a fact of life rather than something that has been rending Noctis to pieces in the past few months. “Talk to me, man - what do you like about him? Lot of the therapists I work with say verbalization helps with the ‘sorting through’ stuff.”

Noctis sighs again, guttural: “Well...when I think about it, I guess I’ve always been looking at him, and just never realized what all that looking meant.”

Noctis picks at some of the lint on his trousers, itching for something to do, something to fiddle with. He continues, searching inside himself for the right pieces to lay bare, “At first I thought it was just -” he shrugs, “a sex thing, I guess. You’ve seen how Iggy looks.”

_ Like a runway model. Like an artist. An actor. Like someone who could sweep you off your damn feet. _

_ Like something that’s been a part of you for so long you never realized it for what it was _ . 

“Sure,” says Prompto, though he sounds a little awkward at the mention of Ignis in a sexual capacity. “I get that.”

“But then,” Noctis leans back against his chair, watching a bird hop around on a tree branch near some oranges. “We came here, and all this time alone together got me thinking it’s...bigger than that. I can’t explain it.”

He’s not very good at this, and feels every inch of his inexpertise in the moment. But luckily, Prompto seems to get it, and something wise infuses his voice as he responds, “I think I get it, Noct. I was where you’re at only a few months ago, remember?”

Something seems to come to him, and Prompto asks, “Wait, is this why you were asking me about how I knew I was into Ravus a while back?”

“Pretty much.”

“Wow,” he breathes. “It’s been bad for a while, huh?”

“You know have no idea.”

“Have you...talked about it with him?”

“No,” Noctis shakes his head, tries to keep his voice from becoming the morose murmur that it wants to be, barely stronger than gossamer thread. “Not in words, no. But I think he’s getting an idea.”

“Then what’s the problem?” asks Prompto, audibly taking a sip from his coffee. “Look, it might not be my place to tell you but...you know Iggy probably feels the same way, right? It’s so obvious.” 

“Yeah,” Noctis nods, biting his lip. “Maybe.”

What was the nature of Ignis’ feelings, though? He can’t be sure; he figures he can suss out the physical attraction well enough, but what of the rest of it?

And that was just it, wasn’t it? If it were just lust on both sides, everything would be simple. A little fun between grown men wouldn’t cause a stir, even if one were a king. People would turn the other way for physical fraternization; they would not for anything more serious than that. And it’s the burgeoning seriousness of his feelings that’s making everything so damn complicated. 

Prompto takes another sip, asking, “Then what’s the problem?”

“Because if either of us wants to do anything about it,” Noctis watches his hand, mindlessly drumming his fingers against his thigh as he speaks. “He has to resign - you know the law about getting involved with servants of the crown.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Noctis listening to the birds chirp and the sound of gardening below him. It feels good, Noctis thinks, to lay it out like this, bare for someone to see - so that it’s not locked inside him anymore, strangling his heart with every passing second. He wonders if this was how Prompto felt when he’d done it - he should have given him more credit for his courage back then. 

“And there’s this other thing,” he starts, fidgeting now. “The big part of why  _ I _ can’t say anything.”

“Yeah?”

How does he explain it? He wishes he had a gift for words, to make everything into poetry just in the speaking of it, “I just - Ignis has never said no to me, you know?” Noctis tries to barrell past his own stumbling. “Never has. If I say something, even if it’s a choice...he’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“How much I want it. And then he’ll give it to me.”

Would he be able to live with it, having Ignis in the way he wants to, only to see the longing in his eyes as he looks upon the closed doors of the Citadel council rooms, the meeting halls? He doesn’t think so. Noctis could try his best and make it a choice for him, but he knows that one slip-up - one overly longing look - and Ignis will put his own wants aside to make Noctis’ a reality. And the cost, this time, is too great. 

“Listen, Noct,” Prompto starts, making his voice firm. “Iggy’s a big boy, he can handle it - I’m sure he knows what he wants well enough to make that choice, you know?”

Noctis shakes his head, even though Prompto can’t see it: “How can you be sure? How can he? He’s trained his whole life for this - how can he know he’s going to be okay with giving that up, years down the line?”  

The heart cannot be the Hand of the King, and he doesn’t want to do that to Ignis. He thinks he might rather walk this tightrope forever, bear the uncertainty, that stifling purgatory of unknowing,  _ forever _ , rather than see that happen.  

In the end, there is no choice for Noctis here - the ball is in Ignis’ court, and Noctis is terrified; what if he says no? What if he says  _ yes _ ?

The other path is to turn themselves away from it all together, block their ears and their eyes, circle around each other for the rest of their days; Noctis, who will look at Ignis and think to himself in a mantra of heartache, “ _ if only, if only, if only… _ ”

“There’s no one out there who can do what he does, Prompto,” he says, frowning. “It wouldn’t just be a loss for me, it would be a loss for  _ all of us _ . Can I really put what I want before the needs of a nation?”

He feels himself quiet, and his voice wavers when he continues, “I might not be worth it, Prompto.”

“Whoa, hey, no,” Prompto stumbles. “None of that, man. Leave the self-doubt to someone who’s good at it, like me,” Noctis can hear the wry smile in his voice when he says it, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not saying it to be humble,” Noctis mumbles, frowning.

“The people will be fine,” Prompto tells him, firm. “You weren’t here during the decade, but I  _ was _ \- you never saw just how strong we all are. We’ll pull through...and besides,” he gives Noctis a significant pause. “We won’t be in a total rut, y’know -  _ you’re _ still our king.”

“Ignis is great at what he does,” he continues, not giving Noctis the chance to interject. “We all know that. But you’re a great king, Noct, and you’ll still do great. We’ll all follow you, and you know what? We’ll be fine. And I think you deserve your shot at happiness.”

Noctis’ breath flutters out of him, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He tries to sit on that, stew himself in Prompto’s faith, and says, “...Thank you.”

“Just think on it, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“And trust Ignis, too.”

“...Yeah.”

Suddenly, Prompto giggles.

“Hm?”

“Y’know, I just realized,” his laughter tapers off, but Noctis can hear the grin in his voice. “We’re on the phone, talkin’ about boys.” 

Noctis shakes his head, chuckling in response, “We should be doing this in person - braiding each other’s hair.”

They share another laugh.

Noctis sighs, “Feels like I’m too old to be having romance problems.”

Prompto hums in thought on the other end, and when he speaks his voice is gentle: “Y’know, that’s something I’ve learned about getting older - you’re never actually too old for anything.”

“Guess that’s true.”

“Hey,” he hears Prompto set his cup down. “You got this.”

“Thanks, Prompto.”

 

*

 

He’s still on the balcony when he hears a knock at his bedroom door, and calls for Ignis to come in. The phone call ended an hour ago, but he didn’t want to leave the sweet little groove he’s making in his cushion. 

“How was the class?” he asks, as Ignis makes his way to the balcony, carrying two cans of something hopefully cold.

“Learned a good deal more than I was expecting,” is the response, and underneath, a tinge of excitement. “Anticipate a few exciting dinners at the Citadel when we return.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Ignis hands him a can - iced coffee, it looks like. A local brand, too; gold with black branding. A name he couldn’t hope to pronounce.  

“I realize it’s a blasphemy of taste to admit it,” Ignis says, popping the tab off his and leaning his back against the railing. “But none of the artisanal coffee I’ve had here compares to Ebony. This is the closest I can find.”

“Wow, Iggy,” Noctis grins. “I don’t even like coffee but  _ I _ know that’s a faux pas.”

“Which is why you’ll be telling no one,” Ignis points sternly at him. Though his mouth quirks a little at the sides. “My reputation must remain untarnished.” 

They share a laugh and drink in silence, enjoying the scenery.

The sun casts its glow against Ignis’ back, softening the lines of him like a something out of a watercolour painting. Noctis takes in the shadows hugging his collarbones, the pink of his fingertips against the can, the way his hair almost becomes blond in the light. Vaguely, he imagines a great painter measuring Ignis’ form - doing that thing they do, where they hold up their brush in front of them and squint, tongue poking out of their mouths. Ignis would be right here, leaning against the rail with his back to the courtyard, looking at Noctis -

Looking at Noctis looking at him. 

For a moment he thinks he’s been caught - but closer inspection tells him that Ignis isn’t really looking at him that way; his friend is lost in his own thoughts, eyes clouded as they linger on Noctis, fixed at Noctis’ exposed chest, in very much the same way Noctis had just been watching him. What is he seeing? 

_ Do you think of me at night, too _ ? Noctis imagines asking.  _ Do you think about touching me as much as I think about touching you _ ?

Noctis takes a sip from his drink, head canting back and bearing his throat, and he keeps his eyes on Ignis’ face as he reaches up to pull at the edge of his shirt and fans himself with it. He’s not sure what he’s doing - he’s never tried to seduce anyone before, and he hopes he doesn’t look a fool. But he feels compelled to preen, like a bird puffing its colourful plumage, to bring Ignis’ eyes to where he wants to feel them - on his bared chest, down to the rude spread of his legs.  

Going by the way Ignis blinks himself out of his stupor and hurriedly looks away - it works.


	12. Chapter Twelve - Ambrosia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes to a head.

On the third week, the eventual end of the trip begins to loom, and Noctis finds himself resisting it utterly.  

But vacations aren’t forever, that’s why they’re so coveted.

They’ve taken outdoor seating at a cafe, sharing a bowl of Altissian sourberry gelato on a table covered in red-and-white checkered cloth. Noctis tries not to let the melancholy of their impending departure affect him, but it’s hard. Hard to think that they’ll be back to watching eyes and expectations again, where they can’t quite let go as much as they have here. Litore feels like their own little haven.

Or Noctis’ own little haven, at any rate. Despite Prompto’s assurances, Noctis hasn’t quite managed to sit Ignis down to anything remotely approaching a confession. He’s not too proud to admit that it is completely out of fear. And something in the back of his mind still quakes at the thought of being the one to cave first, that it would just be wrong of him to do so.

“No need to fret, Noct,” says Ignis, gentle as the smoke from his cigarillo; the sight of him with one is becoming steadily routine. Noctis thinks he might miss the sight of him with them when they get back home. “We can always come back next year.”

He’d told Ignis that he was sorry to say goodbye to this place, that he’s gotten attached, that the thought of going back to paperwork has him preemptively fatigued all over again. Ignis seemed to understand, even if Noctis had left out the most vital bit: _I don’t want to go back because I like having you all to myself_.

What a pain, having a crisis of the heart at the tender age of _thirty_. He feels like a kid again and not in the fun way, out of his depth and out of his mind.

He sighs, taking the last scoop of the gelato and popping the spoon into his mouth with a frown. It’s their second order - a third is out of the question, but he looks at the teal ceramic of the bowl with a forlorn expression.

“It will be a pity to leave, though,” murmurs Ignis, watching the sun begin its steady descent in the sky; it will be sunset soon. Some folks still look upon the sunsets with dread, even after all this time, fearing that it won't come back up - post-traumatic stress, the doctors say. “But I will admit, a part of me is looking forward to getting back to my duties at the Citadel.”

Noctis’ eyes dart away from Ignis’ face at that, looking down at his own hands. There’s that hot feeling of shame, bubbling its way up through his chest, because that’s just the problem isn’t it - the crux of all his hesitation, why he doesn’t say a damn thing even though he’s all but certain that Ignis feels the same. Could he? Sure, but _should_ he?

Prompto seemed to think so - but these things were so much easier said than done.

He polishes off the dessert with a frown. Ignis seems to mistake it for mourning their ending vacation, luckily, and gives him a comforting little smile.

“I miss home, too,” he says, resting his chin on his palm. “But I don’t know, I guess just figured three weeks would last a bit longer.”

Ignis hums in agreement, taking a sip from his bottle of beer and tossing his dirty spoon and their used napkins into the bowl.

“We’ll just have to make the best of the rest of our time here,” he says.

Noctis nods, imagination going wild with thoughts of the two of them rolling around on his big bed back at the villa, with the balcony doors wide open and sunlight streaming onto their bodies.

 _Get a hold of yourself, you’re not a horny teenager anymore_ , he thinks to himself, snidely.

“Shall we walk?” Ignis asks, as finishes his beer and rises. He stretches out a hand, like something off the cover of those cheesy romance novels Gladio always reads.  

Noctis smiles and takes it, delighting in the slide of their skin against each other, and waves goodbye to their server. He puts the tip on the table, tucked under their empty bottles.

They stroll aimlessly, exploring winding alleys and paths away from the main streets, as though they’re looking for secrets, the little wonders a city has to offer curious human souls beyond the stuff meant for tourists. Noctis likes seeing the potted plants on the windowsills above them, the children’s toys and the dried laundry - all the little markers of life. The living, breathing proof that all their hard work paid off.

They find a stray cat in an alley, a little orange tabby they nickname Edgar that follows them down four stretches of alleyways until it gets bored and trots off. They see several carved statues of Leviathan stationed in the alcoves tucked into those quieter parts of the town. Some have the likeness of the Hydrean pouring water from her mouth into fountains, where people toss coins and murmur wishes under the amber glow of streetlights. Stopping at one, Ignis manages to fish a couple gil in spare change from his pockets, giving one to Noctis. What Ignis wishes for is a mystery, but Noctis knows the instant the gold touches his palm what he’s wishing for: the chance to brush a kiss to Ignis’ freckles and scars, to submit a benediction upon each and every one; to hold his hand and take him dancing, even though Noctis dances poorly; to ask him for more of his poetry; to rub his shoulders and take his cares away, in the way of longtime lovers.

A multitude of ways to ask for the same thing, sure - but he’s never been good with his words.  

In a moment of courage, or perhaps weakness, he loops his arm through Ignis’ as they walk. Ignis doesn’t seem to mind, watching a couple of teenagers running ahead of them with bubble wands, their sandals clapping on the cobblestone as they go and streaming bubbles that glimmer like glass in the low light, laughing in the way of the young; vibrantly, and free of shame. One of them is a young girl in a cream sundress, with a head of golden hair, invoking the image of Luna so strongly that he has to forcibly shake himself out of an impending surge of sadness.

She wouldn’t want grief to mar such a happy evening, so he thinks of brighter things - the smell of salt in the air from the beach, the chirping of cicadas and twanging of mandolins a few streets away. Ignis, steady and calming right beside him, walking to the same rhythm as he does; their footsteps hitting the same beat - left and right, one and two.    

If Noctis doesn’t think about it too hard, he can almost imagine that this is a date.

They pass a small temple made of sandy coloured stone, with tall wooden doors at its center - one of the many in Accordo dedicated to the worship of Leviathan, and see a group of elderly priestesses coming through the door, with one turning around to lock them with a key from a big ring. True to local custom, they’re all clad in long, dark blue smocks with head coverings that are embroidered with images of their goddess in flight, surrounded by a tempest. He and Ignis walk by and the women give them a wave, bidding them a good night.

At his back, he can hear them tittering, “My, this generation cuts a fine figure, don’t they?”

A pleased smirk crosses his face, and he glances up at Ignis to waggle his brows; in return, he gets a stifled laugh.

 

*

 

“Hold a moment,” says Ignis, turning from their path and making his way to a rack of postcards, attached to a souvenir stand where the vendor is starting to pull down the shutters, about to close up shop.  

Noctis stays where he is, watching Ignis peruse the selection before picking one; it’s a stunning shot of the piazza, dazzling in the light of sunset. Ignis pays the vendor with a smile, something private fluttering through his eyes that Noctis isn’t privy to. He even asks who it’s for, doing a commendable job of reining in the notes of jealousy that threaten to colour his tone. “Ah, an old friend,” is what Ignis says in response, and Noctis takes it at face value because that’s all he can do.

Later, after they’ve had dinner and Ignis has already retreated to bed, Noctis sees the card on an end table next to Ignis’ wallet. He clearly intends to send it the next morning, and in a crushing moment of weakness Noctis picks it up and reads:

 

 _My dear Inés,_  

_Add Litore to your list, post-haste; I swear I will taste the summer on my tongue for all my days after this one. Sometimes I turn a corner and imagine you on the street ahead, in that dress you wore when you last visited._

 

_P.S. You were right about the risotto - but don’t tell Leandra and Anton I said so, if you please._

_Yours,_

_Ignis._  

 

It’s the farewell that sticks with him, long after he’s placed the card back on the table and slipped into his own bed: _Yours, Ignis_.

 

*

 

 _Yours, Ignis_ \- an innocuous, common thing - doesn’t leave his head. And it is, perhaps, what becomes the tipping point after all, as though the mantra of it in his mind pushes him to the threshold of his patience; where before he had thought he could handle the unknowing, this fraught stasis between them, he now finds the thought of it weighs him down like stones strapped to his feet, as his body careens off the edge of a waterfall.

Or maybe, he just needed an excuse - a place to shift the blame, should it all fall apart under his poor decision-making.

Or, more likely, he’s getting tired.

Two days before they must leave, they’re taking a walk through the small maze that is Floro’s vineyard, letting their supper settle in their stomachs, separated by a trellis of grapevines. It’s that sweet spot just before sunset, where the brightness is winding down but the colours haven’t popped yet, where sweat is cooling under their shirts, where the quiet of night is gearing up to take over for the day.  

Noctis is covertly plucking some of the grapes off the vines and popping them into his mouth - normally his advisor would admonish him for it since they aren’t washed, but they’re on vacation. Ignis is smoking again, talking loftily about a potential trade offer to import some Gabbiani Red to the crown city when they get back, about how Gladio would love the stuff, maybe even serve it at his wedding, and Noctis feels his resolve dissipate against his wishes, because he’s looking at Ignis’ profile through the leaves and he hurts so much he may as well hurt just a little bit more.

And he figures, maybe, that he really is getting tired.

“Ignis,” Noctis interrupts, voice stilted though he doesn’t break his stride to speak. “Have you ever been in love?”

He's had his answer back at the bookstore, but he's afraid to hear it in words, spoken in Ignis' voice - so he keeps his legs moving and his eyes forward, despite the instinct to lock up and look over. The sound of Ignis’ steps falters only for a second, but keeps pace with him afterward - always so sharp, so ready and skilled. Sometimes he looks at Ignis and thinks that it just makes sense, how he’s ended up here and feeling this way, because how could he not?

“ _The man who will outfox the world_ ” indeed.

“Why do you ask?” is Ignis’ response, guarded and over-light.

He wants to ask Ignis to speak plainly and to not deflect like he’s clearly doing, to put his court-trained subterfuge away and to bare his heart because Noctis wants him to.  

And it’s unfair because it’s an intensely personal question, so Noctis can’t blame him for his wariness. If asked, he might have been doing the same.

“Because I’ve never asked,” he says. “And we’ve known each other long enough that I probably should’ve.”

It was supposed to come out teasing but instead it’s sober and morose.

The sound of Ignis’ footsteps halts and so Noctis does too, turning where he stands to face him through the vines. There’s smoke unfurling out of his mouth, those pouting lips that sparked the fire. His eyes are looking downward, focused on a cluster of grapes, lashes thick against the flush of his cheeks. Noctis isn’t able to make out their luster like this, that sultry green - like a bottle of _Ambrosia_. What he’d give to reach for him through the vines and kiss his eyelids fully closed, taste the sweetness of his skin in the heat of this Accordan summer evening.

The sun is beginning to set, and its light makes a golden halo of his hair, loose again. Loose like his posture, loose like his fingers holding the cigarillo.

His voice, however, is tight - iron-wrought like a man setting off on a death march: “I’ve been in love.”

Noctis puts all of his discipline into controlling his face, to make sure that it stays still and betrays nothing. He wants to ask, “and are you still?” but it hesitates in his throat. That feels too direct, somehow. Or perhaps not direct enough? He doesn’t know how this is supposed to go. He’s been trained in all sorts of court etiquette and diplomatic negotiations and legal hearings - but never in how to talk about _this_ and he finds himself thinking: _what a shame - for this is so much more important_.

Ignis looks fierce, smoking at the mouth and eyes looking like something - something almost wild, searching intently for the soft underbelly of the truth; Noctis has fought gods and banished hell from Eos, but it’s only now that his knees feel weak. That gaze feels sharp enough to flay the skin from his bones.

“Anybody I know?” Noctis asks instead, voice a quiet rasp. He knows - he absolutely, completely knows now, because that look on his face can’t possibly mean anything _else_ \- he just needs Ignis to say it. To say it aloud and then extend the offering of his heart of his own free will, and Noctis will surge forward and take it.

He would spend the rest of his life rewarding Ignis for that courage, in every way he could think of.

“Have I not been terribly obvious?” breathes Ignis, sotto voce. Fierceness gives way and collapses into sadness on that beautiful face, as though in failure; Noctis hates it.  

 _Be more obvious - just a little bit more_ , Noctis wants to say. _Take the choice from me, because I don’t know if I can bear to ask it of you._

Noctis wonders if he’s going to end up like the Canticle of Lady Decima, turning to ash from heartache, from watching and never having. Is his life to be one great tragedy, after all? Defeat the scourge, save the world, only to perish alone in his longing? Will the history of him be one long sermon of loss and loneliness? What will the inscription on his grave be, he wonders - Here Lies The Chosen King: He lived a hero, but died with a heart like a wilted, over ripened fruit?

Or could he reach out, weaving himself through the vines to fold himself around Ignis’ sun-drenched body, tasting him finally - only to watch later, when they have to strip his title from him, take away everything he’s worked his whole life for. Because that is the path ahead if he confesses; if Ignis could be his, Noctis will want him openly, bared for the world to see. Because the last time he loved someone privately it almost ruined him, a forceful sundering of his soul - the aftershocks of which he’s not sure he’ll ever recover from.

He won’t do it again, he’d die first.

“Noct,” says Ignis, voice sharply cutting through his thoughts despite its gentleness, eyes boring into his. “Come back, please.”

The looming horror of his imagination recedes like a curtain, and Noctis raises a brow even as his fingertips shake: “I never left, Iggy - I’m right here.”

“You leave sometimes,” Ignis murmurs, looking down somewhere in the vicinity of Noctis’ collar. “And I notice every time.”

Ignis takes a puff, and when his gaze flits back to Noctis’ there’s something exhausted in his eyes. It’s lucky the vineyard is so quiet, he might’ve missed Ignis’ voice over the noise of anything louder than a mayfly: “I notice everything about you, Noct. I always have.”

“Because it’s your job?” asks Noctis, perhaps unfairly. But he desperately wants to push and push until Ignis tells him what he wants to hear -

“Because I love you.”

Somehow - he’d thought he would’ve been prepared to hear it in case it ever happened. How foolish, in hindsight.

The breath leaves his body in a rush, with such force he feels himself sag and shudder. Heat rushes to his cheeks, his eyes - which he blinks rapidly to ward off - and his heart flutters in his chest as though trapped. Could a person die from bliss? He doesn’t know, and the one person he’d think to ask is looking at him now, beautiful face tight with caution, eyes wide with fear.

 _You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met_ , he thinks, in awe. _Braver than I could ever hope to tell you_.

“Noct,” Ignis starts before he can say anything. “Have you...ever read the work of Amis Cotillard? Or the piece that I wrote in that compilation?”

He isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, but he shakes his head, dizzy.

Ignis’ voice is strained, when he continues, “Then I’ll only bring up his most pertinent point: that a man who has only known starvation would likely crumble at the barest offer of succor -”

He pauses to take a breath, running a restless hand through his hair, “Noct. I have loved you all of my life, and I will love you for the rest of it - but if your next words are offers of comfort, I will beg you to refrain.”

Noctis takes a moment to appreciate that Ignis, for all of his wisdom and his courage, is afraid of this too. It feels like some dreadful imbalance between them, some seemingly insurmountable gulf, has been corrected.

He shakes his head and moves closer to the vines, breathes “I love you too” between them as though whispering a secret; as if saying them too loud would startle the man before him.

“Do you truly?” asks Ignis, quiet too. He looks skeptical, and that won’t do. “I realize something has changed between us, but if this is only...misplaced lust…”

“It isn’t,” Noctis interrupts. He wants, badly, to take that miserable look off of Ignis’ face - because he feels fit to burst, so happy he could fall dead. His cheeks might be sore later, from all the smiling, even as watery as it feels. “It isn’t.”

He slots his hand in between the wire of the trellis, pushing through despite the way they dig into his skin, and reaches for Ignis - who looks at it as though he’s in disbelief that it’s real. Ignis stubs out the cigarillo on the bottom of his shoe and tucks the rest of it into his pocket - such brilliant manners, to think of not littering in this state - and takes it in his own; Noctis threads their fingers together in some pale imitation of a kiss, drinking in the warmth of his palms, clutching him as though his hand is an anchor keeping Noctis from floating away in his elation.

Ignis reaches up and smooths Noctis’ hand between the both of his, looking at it in wonder, his cheeks glowing pink - as though kissed by roses. When he leans down to kiss the back of Noctis’ hand, his knuckles, and his fingers - Noctis shivers, and turns his hand around to cup his cheek, strokes his thumb along the faintly rough skin around his eye.

Finally - _finally_ \- Ignis smiles back, radiant, and those lovely lines at the sides of his mouth surface again. Were they not divided by the trellis, Noctis would surge up to kiss them in greeting and in promise.

“Are you sure?” Ignis asks, even as he places his hand above Noctis’ and leans in to kiss his palm. His lips are so very soft, and Noctis leans his head against the vines, starstruck. “If you are to give me my heart’s fondest wish, I need to know that you’re sure.”

“Are _you_?” he asks, his confidence wavering as he remembers - all the reasons Ignis might reconsider, the very real obstacles in their path. “Could I ask this of you? Have you give up your duties? You’ve put your whole life into this, Ignis...”

“Noct,” says Ignis, his voice as strong as he’s ever heard it. He comes closer, dropping his hand to slip his own arms through the trellis - and brings them both up to cradle Noctis’ face, gently, like he’s holding something unbearably precious. Like something holy beyond measure. “I was ready to give the world for you.”

He wants terribly to kiss him, but for now he settles drinking him in with his eyes, feeling his skin. Ignis leans his head against his side of the vines too, and they watch each other through the gaps as he barrels on, as though he can’t contain himself, “If you were to ask me right now, I would put the ring on again, without hesitation - as I have done before. What is a title, after that? What is duty to me, when I’ve never seen you smile so?”

This close, it feels like the world outside may as well not exist at all.

“Ask anything of me, and I shall give it to you,” Ignis sweeps a hand through his hair. “All I ask in return is that you never doubt the depth of my regard for you.”

He remembers the first time the armiger ever flared to full strength - giving him the power of flight, the strength to take down a god. He remembers the sensation of soaring through the air, feeling invincible, as though his blood had taken on the essence of the stars - limitless, and inconceivably strong.    

How paltry that was, in the face of _this_.

“Then I’m going to ask you for something in return,” Noctis says, smiling bright despite how badly his voice shakes. The thundering inside him settles into peace like he’s never known before. “Don’t doubt mine, okay?”

 

*

 

They come back to the villa and reach the top of the stairs again, this time hand-in-hand, Noctis’ thumbs rubbing little circles around Ignis’ knuckle; commiting it all to memory, the warm and smooth texture of his skin. They stop at his door, and Ignis asks, “Would you like to take this slow, Noct?” His gaze belies his wants, however, the same wants that simmer hotly in Noctis’ belly.

So Noctis shakes his head, says, “Feels like I’ve been waiting years. I don’t, if you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

He cradles Ignis’ head in his hands, stroking along that smooth jawline - and a thrill races through him that he gets to do this now, where before every touch felt like a trespass, a thievery on his form - and brings him down for a kiss. And another. And another.

“Good.”

And pulls him backwards through the threshold of his borrowed bedroom, eyes on his all the while.

 

*

 

Later, when they’ve made their way back to town for a show, heads light with elation and hearts full with new rhythms, Noctis slips his hand out of Ignis’ for a moment, citing personal business. He quietly dips into Floro’s bookshop while Ignis waits outside, waving at the man and asking if he sells postcards.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Floro gestures to a stand nearly hidden by a particularly precarious shelf. “Some you won’t find in the other parts of town, Majesty.”

Noctis nods his thanks and makes his way over, looking over the selection with a critical eye. Most of them are the usual tourist fare - a variety of clean, marketable shots of the cityscape or special attractions. Some are more artsy, and there’s even one that’s hand drawn in the style of Altissian caricature art. Finally, he sees one that catches his attention and picks it up, knowing immediately it’s the one he wants; it’s not a photograph, but a watercolour rendition of Litore’s beach, with tiny blooms of colour that make up people and beach umbrellas on the shore. The artist had emphasized the seafoam green and the russet hues of the buildings’ bricks, painting the whole scene in the tones of nostalgia - where colours burn brighter, where edges are softer. It’s perfect.  

He brings it to the front desk and buys it, filling and signing it right there with a fountain pen he borrows from Floro. Slipping into a complementary envelope, sealed from prying eyes, he asks if the man can mail it a few months from now, at the start of winter. Floro bows and happily agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what y'all have been waiting for, yes?
> 
> here's some music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ss8t7a8n0U4


	13. Chapter Thirteen - A Farewell to Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk in the tub, and a goodbye to Accordo.

There’s a golden bowl of flower petals next to the tub, with raised filigree on its rim that catches the sunlight; Ignis tells him they’re infused with perfume and soap. Noctis thinks it’s a little too much like something out of a cheesy romance novel - but Ignis likes it, so he indulges him and finds he likes it too.

The villa’s bath is large enough to fit four Gladios, it seems like. Its elevation is high enough that stone steps surround it from the outside, where it’s tucked into an alcove in the room and right underneath the open window. It’s early morning, and birds chirp from their perches on the orange trees, whistling tunes to ring in the day.

Despite all the space, Noctis makes himself comfortable lying flush against Ignis’ front, resting his chin and hands on the man’s chest.

Ignis reaches over to take a handful of petals - there’s an array of colours, like every shade in a sunset; oranges and yellows, pinks and violets. With a fluid tilt of his wrist he lets them drop into the water, tumbling over Noctis’ shoulders and back; he watches them like he’s committing the image to memory.

“What are you thinking about?” Noctis asks, voice sleepy and content. He thinks he might like to take the sight of Ignis’ face, so close and serene, into dreams one night - on purpose, this time - just to see what he might find on the other side.

“My resignation,” murmurs Ignis, absently rubbing a petal in circles against the bump of Noctis’ shoulder.

Noctis flits his eyes away and tucks his head into the crook of Ignis’ neck, “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled.

“Don’t be,” Ignis whispers against his hair, fond. “Because I’m not.”

“Still,” his skin smells so nice; tastes even nicer. “Aren’t you...upset?”

“I admit - I’ll miss it very much,” he slides the petal back toward Noctis’ spine, rolling it over the bumps until he hits the water. “And the thought of someone else taking over your care makes me indescribably anxious.”

Noctis snorts, “Whoever that is is going to have some big shoes to fill.”

Ignis hums in agreement.

They spend some minutes laying in companionable silence, before Ignis continues, “I suppose you can say that the years you were gone gave me some perspective.”

“Mm?”

He lets the petal float away in the water and brushes the fringe of hair away from Noctis’ face: “It was never the job I loved,” he sighs, almost dreamily as he leans forward to kiss his brow. “As invigorating as it can be - I only ever wanted to see you happy and healthy. Not having you around during that time only made me all the more sure.

“So long as I’m with you,” he nudges Noctis’ nose with his own. “Near you, talking with you...I’ll be fine.”

Noctis sighs against his skin before reaching up and tapping him on the forehead, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Just..say what you feel. And making me feel like an ass for taking so long to notice you.”

Ignis raises a brow, as though confused, “I never needed you to notice me. I would have been content with your friendship alone.”

“Really?” he asks, skeptically.

“Noct,” he has that patient tone of voice one uses when explaining something very obvious. “Even before we met as children, I had been prepared for the eventuality that you would be married off and producing heirs for the greater good, and that my duties to you would one day extend to your wife and children. I never had the chance the lament that things couldn’t be different - because it had been absolutely instilled in me that they were never going to be.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is contemplative and a shade disbelieving, “Something like this-” he gestures between the two of them, the bath, the villa, “was beyond my ability to imagine it.”

Noctis leans over to kiss him, a slow glide of lips and tongue, just needing in that moment to feel the heat of his mouth - a confirmation for them both that this was real. When they pull apart, Noctis asks, “What about your poem?”

Ignis blushes, and averts his gaze to the window, “My one moment of weakness.”

“Don’t call it weakness,” says Noctis, stern. “I never had the courage to admit how I felt about Luna - to anyone. Don’t call yourself weak for something like that, Iggy. Most of us can’t do what you did.”

Ignis looks abashed, though a small and grateful smile crosses his face right after. Noctis settles back down against his chest, humming in contentment.

Eventually, Ignis changes the subject, “There are a few more duties I would like to complete before I formally leave; a few months, at most.”

“Take as long as you need,” he nods. “I’ll wait.”

Staying low key and secret sounds painful, when all he wants to do is shout it from the rooftops, but he’ll grit his teeth and do it if it means Ignis gets to go out how he wants.

“It won’t be long, Noct,” he says. “I will admit my patience in this isn’t much stronger than yours. I...would also like to hold your hand in the light of day.”

Noctis smiles at that, feeling fluttery and so pleased he could fall to pieces, “Any idea what you’ll get up to once you’re done?”

“Perhaps I’ll travel,” Ignis suggests, and he sounds like he enjoys the idea very much. “I’ve gotten to do very little of it outside state business - it might be enlightening as a civilian.”

“You could try poetry again,” Noctis grins at the image of Ignis in dimly light hostels in faraway places, surrounded by music from old school record players as he scribbles his heart onto paper. What kind of people would he meet? What would inspire him?  

“All the poetry I need is right before me,” Ignis kisses the top of his head.

“That was cheesy.”

“Certainly,” Ignis chuckles. “But not untrue.”

He thinks again, running between Noctis’ shoulder blades, “Going back to my studies is also an idea - completing a doctorate, perhaps. Or I could even work with Sania and her cohort at the Royal University.”

Noctis blinks, “You’re not a science guy.”

“No,” he grins. “But it’s a new age - why not learn?”

He snuggles closer, bring his arms down into the water to wrap around his middle.

“The thought of so many possibilities is almost daunting,” Ignis adds. “Though I’m liking the idea more and more.”

“I’m going to miss you during the meetings,” Noctis says, peppering wet kisses along the column of Ignis’ throat, down to the dips of his collarbones, and weaving around that little skull charm that Ignis never takes off. Not even when they make love. It had been with a heady, erotic fascination that he’d watched the little pendant jump against his lover’s chest as Ignis moved against him last night.

Ignis had been idly rubbing his shoulders, and he stops to reach up and play with Noctis’ ears, “You will adjust in little time,” he says. His voice is rough in the mornings, despite his wakefulness; Noctis loves the growl underneath that rich accent. “Don’t underestimate your resilience, Noct.”

“Don’t want to adjust,” he mutters, obstinate. “Just thinking about having it both ways, is all.”

“Let me take your mind off it, then,” purrs Ignis, with a pointed smile. Noctis finds himself fascinated at how emotions play out on Ignis’ face - one moment he can look like a mournful poet, the next a seductive trickster. If he ever decided to go rogue and take over the world, he would manage it without anyone being the wiser.  

One of his strong, lean thighs nudges in between Noctis’ under the water and lightly rocks against the heat between them.

Noctis shivers, brings up his arms around Ignis’ neck and murmurs against his jaw: “This how you’re going to change the subject from now on?”

“Do you object?”

“Hell no.”

 

*

 

They finish their last night in Litore by going to a dance - at Floro’s sister’s tavern again, where a party is being held for a local holiday; when they ask, a young woman tells them it’s the first day of a week-long celebration, commemorating the country’s liberation a corrupt monarchy many hundreds of years ago. She’d summed it up for them as “Accordo’s officially sanctioned party week!” and gleefully told them to have a good time.

It was a pity that they’d be leaving the next morning. But as Noctis holds Ignis’ hand on the way to the tavern, he figures they’d had enough of a break - and going back to Insomnia feels less daunting now than it did a mere handful of days ago.

They settle themselves on the second floor balcony first, watching the people mill into the building in their brightly coloured clothing - long, frilly skirts and big collared shirts, women with bangles on their wrists and men with cigars poking from the corner of their mouths. Happy, bright people with sun-browned skin and rich voices.

Noctis looks at Ignis standing next to him, watching his profile in the dim lighting of the tavern, the small, satisfied smile on his mouth. It’s strange to think that only a few days ago he’d been agonizing about never getting to touch him, how wretched he’d felt about it, and now he’s made it to the other side - where he’s touched Ignis every way that a person can be touched, kissed him and held him in his arms. And still, he wants to touch him even more - and that want is chased by the elation that he _can_.

He looks down at the growing crowd below, past all the arms dangling over the banister, “Want to dance?”

“I didn’t think you liked dancing all that much,” quips Ignis, surprised.  

“I do when I’ve got the prettiest partner in the room,” smirks Noctis, putting a hand on the small of his back as he leads them down the stairs.

“‘Pretty’?” Ignis chuckles fondly, and his smile is wry - bashful, too, at the edges. He plays along, “You haven’t looked around.”

“Don’t need to.”

It’s a memory he’ll cherish forever, moving with Ignis in a throng of happy, cheering people - with the music so loud they don’t bother to speak, only watching each other and grinning big. This time he feels no worry, no desire to treat it like a moment to capture before making away with it like a thief in the night. There’s relief, and a throbbing happiness that he and Ignis are on the same wavelength this time, moving in tandem with each other, knowing that they’ll eventually leave the party early to steal more time to themselves - probably falling into that big bed at the villa and chasing the taste of _Ambrosia_ in each other’s mouths.  

 

*

 

They meet up with the mayor again just before leaving for Altissia. She’s waiting for them in front of their car, in a bright pink pantsuit this time, beaming at them with pleasure. They exchange pleasantries, shake hands, and chat about the trip and the possibilities of coming back - the usual business. Back to politics.  

On the way to their car Mariana sets a hand on his elbow, and leans in close with a secretive smile on her face, “What did I tell you, Your Majesty? Good memories to take with you, yes?”

She inclines her head in the direction of the car, where Ignis is helping put their bags and suitcases away. There’s that twinkle in her eye, the one he’s often seen on the faces of women when they scent romance in the air - and he grins back at her, laying his hand overtop hers, and whispers back, “Absolutely.”

 

*

 

Once they hit Lucian soil, they draw up the partition and steal a moment to themselves in the car on the way to Insomnia. Everything between them feels even more new, like this - dressed in their familiar heavy Lucian fabrics, Ignis with his hair properly done up again, and surrounded by the colours of their homeland. There’s a thrilling sensation of getting up to something they shouldn’t - and really, they shouldn’t, but he never had the experience of making out with anyone in the backseat of a car before so he snatches the chance to do it with gusto.

Lucky for him, Ignis is all too willing to oblige, once he stops trying at a dignified protest - weak, to both their ears, especially since Ignis couldn’t draw his eyes away from Noctis’ mouth as he spoke.

He’s learning to catalogue new expressions on the man’s face, adding to the nearly endless repertoire he’d already had before from so many years together - principle among them: what Ignis looks like when he’s thinking about taking Noctis to bed. So far, it hasn’t ceased to warm him, sending heat and desire ricocheting through his insides and making knees buckle. In the moment, Noctis can imagine a very similar look on his own face.

Ignis’ usual prim, put together appearance makes touching him feel even better - makes Noctis imagine pulling him from his sleek, starched clothing and just unravelling him piece by piece. It’s with a great amount of discipline that he refrains from threading his fingers into Ignis’ hair as they kiss and surge against each other, because if they walk out of the car looking like a couple of horny teenagers, there’d be consequences. And they need to do this right.

A _little_ indulgence, though - he can grant himself that much. And Ignis’ lap makes for a really nice seat.

The car comes up to the gates of Insomnia and their driver pings the intercom to let them know - with a shuddering breath, Noctis pulls away from Ignis’ heat to murmur a thanks into the speaker. Ignis takes a moment to catch his breath, reaching up to smooth his hair back despite the fact that it’s still - unfortunately - kept intact. They share a last, parting kiss before Noctis rolls off his lap and properly into his seat.

He does reach out to hold Ignis’ hand, though, even if the fun is over.

They both watch out of their respective windows at the city passing them by - and Noctis feels a surge of love at the familiar sight of the enormous white-grey buildings, with windows with glass so dark they always looked black. By the time they drive into the heart of Insomnia’s downtown, the skyscrapers are so tall they nearly block out all light - he enjoys the openness of nature, but he has a fondness for walking the streets and feeling small and surrounded by buildings so high they looked like they were piercing the sky. They drive by so many other cars and other people - his people - who breathe life into the city he’s sworn his life to protect: people walking their dogs, running to work, going shopping, or grabbing a coffee with their friends.

Vaguely, he admonishes his past self for ever entertaining the idea of not coming back - even if it were only in idle fantasies. Insomnia is in his bones, sure as the blood of his ancestors.  

“Look at that,” he breathes, taking in the way the sun gleams against the dark glass of a bank. “Didn’t realize how much I missed all this.”

“It’s rather lovely, isn’t it?” says Ignis. “A gentleman I’d spoken with in Litore had called Insomnia ‘mysterious’ - I hadn’t quite agreed, until now perhaps…”

He stops to hum, finding his words, “Now, I can see what he meant. There’s an allure to this place that exists nowhere else.”

Ignis’ hand tightens in his, and Ignis is grinning as he adds, “Much like its king, I would say.”

Noctis chuckles, bringing their hands up so that he can kiss the back of Ignis’ without letting him go, “You’re fishing to get laid tonight, aren’t you?”

“Is it working?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

When the car passes through the Citadel gates and makes its way to the square - where their retinue awaits in a long line of black clothes and straight postures - they reluctantly release their hands from each other. The car stops, and as their driver exits to come around to Noctis’ side, he looks over at Ignis one more time and mouths, “I love you”, delight flaring in his belly at the fond, secret little smile he gets in return.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beyond elated and relieved at the response to the last chapter - thank you so much to everyone who took the time to respond, especially for a chapter that had me so worried <3 you guys are the best.
> 
> And now, we're on the home stretch - if you'll notice, we now have a chapter count! Alas, all things must come to an end!


	14. Chapter Fourteen - Shovel Talk(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your friends gotta play their part.

Blearily, Noctis opens his eyes and squints against the lamplight from the nightstand; a quick glance at the clock tells him it’s about an hour before midnight. The light twinge in his neck lets him know that he’d fallen asleep in a bad position, and he reaches up to rub at the muscle. He looks over to the other side of the bed and, oh yes, there it is - the best part.  

Ignis is beside him and coming awake himself from Noctis’ jostling - he’s reaching up to readjust his glasses on his face, stretching out his legs and groaning lightly.  

They’d been reading over reports and protocol briefings on his bed, having a couple glasses of wine to unwind from the day, and must have fallen asleep at some point with their papers scattered around them and still in their day clothes. Despite the lack of comfort, he stills content at waking up next to Ignis.

Since coming home, they’d been swallowed up in a tidal wave of pressing work: a Peace Summit was approaching and preparations had to be made. As the host country, they had more work to do than most, and Noctis is finding himself more grateful every day that Ignis wanted to stick to his duties for its duration. He couldn’t imagine going into it without him at his side, helping him helm what is perhaps going to be the most important political event in history: the official ceasefire between Niflheim and Lucis and after, the signing of the peace treaty between the four nations of Lucis, Niflheim, Accordo, and the newly independent Tenebrae. It’s an event of incredible magnitude and Noctis is barely reaching his first official year as king; Ignis’ guidance has been more invaluable than ever.

He reaches over and cups Ignis’ jaw as he leans down to peck a kiss on his mouth.

“I’d say good morning, but it really isn’t.” Noctis grins, dropping his head to his pillow and watching his advisor try to sit upright while working out the kinks in his back.

“We’re going to be sorry for this in the morning,” mutters Ignis, plucking off his glasses and placing them on the nightstand before rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Oh dear, and still so many of these reports left to read through.”

“We needed a break.”

“ _We_ just had a three week vacation,” Ignis retorts, though his lips quirk into a small grin.

“Should’ve made it four,” Noctis laughs and Ignis must really be tired, because he actually rolls his eyes.

Giving into a sudden impulse, Noctis reaches out and musses his hair. A finely-groomed brow raises in response and Ignis says, drily, “You have a fixation, Noct.”

He shrugs, guileless, “I like messing you up.”

Ignis chuckles and shakes his head, indulgent, “Am I your plaything, then?”

“Hm,” he grins, reaching out to pop open some more of Ignis’ buttons and sliding his hand under the fabric to squeeze at his chest. “I like the sound of that. Maybe instead of travelling or studying, you can just stay in my room.”

“Ah,” Ignis’ eyes glitter in mirth as he reaches over to trail fingers along Noctis’ thigh. “Be a kept man, then?”

“It’s genius; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”

Ignis laughs, “Even for all your charms, Noct, lounging around all day waiting for you would be dreadfully boring.”

“I’d make it worth your while,” Noctis murmurs, popping another button and leaning down to nip at all that newly bared skin. “You know I’m good for it.”

Ignis hums, tapering off in to a hitched breath as Noctis kisses his way his throat. He’s learned that Ignis has a particularly sensitive neck, and it’s a fact he enjoys very much because he loves giving that long, smooth expanse of skin his undivided attention.

“We should really be getting back to the reports,” Ignis whispers, though he leans back against the pillows and rubs soothingly at Noctis’ shoulders. “We’re behind, and the summit is not long away.”

Noctis falls onto him and groans into his neck, and the puff of air makes Ignis shiver, “Ignis, you’re being a mood killer.”

“It isn’t in the nature of politics to be arousing, I’m afraid,” he chuckles, fondly carding his fingers through Noctis’ hair and rubbing his scalp.

He snorts and lifts his head, “Not even for you? If anyone got off to this stuff, I figured you would.”

“Do give me some credit, won’t you,” Ignis quips. “There isn’t a single document on philosophy or Lucian classics in the batch.”

Noctis laughs at that, leaning up to nip at his ear, “All right, all right.”

He’s not sure if he’s got the fortitude to keep reading tonight though, feeling as boneless as he does. Instead of reaching for one of the documents he trails his fingertips up and down across the expanse of Ignis’ bare chest and stomach. And it seems, despite his protests, Ignis isn’t all that interested in picking up the work again either, for he just keeps fiddling with Noctis’ hair and holding him close.

To think, that a little over a week ago they weren’t doing this - waking up folded against each other and syncing up their heartbeats in the dead of night. What a difference a conversation can make; if Noctis hadn’t given in and pushed - if Ignis hadn’t drawn up his courage to bare his heart - they might still skirting around each other in fear and unrealized daydreams.

“I ever say thank you?” he murmurs, eyes closing and breathing in the scent of his fading cologne and the barest hint of wine on his breath.

“For?”

“You know…” he makes a floppy, half-hearted motion with his hand before resuming his touches. “Telling me how you felt. Back in Litore.”

“Ah,” Ignis’ chest rumbles very nicely against Noctis’ cheek when he speaks. “I’ll not downplay how positively frightening it was, but the result was...infinitely worth it.”

He flattens his palm against Ignis’ chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the rhythm of his heart, and the warmth of his skin. It seems a little unbelievable that Ignis could ever be scared of anything, but he knows the feeling himself - because he’d felt it until the very last moment, too.

“Don’t be scared of me...” Noctis murmurs and he doesn’t know why, only that it feels like it needs to be said.

Ignis hums, “You have unthinkable power over me, Noct. That is an easier thing said than done.”

He says it simply as though it were a fact of life, as though it’s something he’s completely fine with. If anything, the note of fondness in his voice makes it sound as though he _likes_ it.

Noctis opens his eyes and look up at him sideways, narrowing his eyes, “...You’re into it, aren’t you.”

An accusation - and Ignis flutters his eyelashes as he glances away, guilty.

“I’m learning all sorts of things about you,” Noctis says, dragging his palm down his front and cupping him roughly between his legs. Watches his lips part and pinkness flood his cheeks. “Huh.”

“I’ve made a grave mistake, haven’t I?” Ignis asks, wry. Amused. Aroused.

He huffs a laugh, kissing and biting at his throat and jaw, feeling the blood heat in his veins.

“Maybe a little,” he kisses the shell of his ear. “I’m thinking up ways to make you pay for it.”

“You may do your worst, Noct,” says Ignis, almost coy. “I will meet any challenge.”

Almost as though in study, Noctis stares across the expanse of Ignis’ body, all of his skin - white like Accordan sands, nipples the dusky pink of the sunset - the rich brown of his hair, and the calming green of his eyes. Nature’s masterwork, in Noctis’ opinion. By now, he’s traversed every inch of him with his eyes, his hands, his tongue; there had been a point where he imagined that he’d be satisfied once he’d had his fill, only to discover that he’s becoming a glutton for more. He’s tasted and wants to taste again, to commit the hues and smells and feel of Ignis to memory, lest he forget somehow. Just in case.

“Do you know,” Ignis murmurs, voice drawing Noctis out of his contemplation. “There’s a look you get sometimes - it makes you very difficult to resist; you have it now.”

Noctis snorts, fondly, “You were pretty good at resisting me for a long time.”

“Not by choice.”

“Ever came close to giving in?” asks Noctis, genuinely curious, as his restless hand moves to grope at Ignis’ thighs. Maybe he’s looking to stroke his ego a little bit, too - Ignis has always been very good at doing that.

“I almost kissed you,” whispers Ignis, gaze warm and a touch embarrassed. “At the bookstore.”

He kisses him now, the barest graze against the ridge of Noctis’ nose, murmuring, “and in your room at the villa, before that,” another kiss, between his brows, “on the beach, before that,” and at last, right against his mouth, “A thousand times, before that.”

Noctis sighs against him, running his hands up the smooth skin of his flanks, squeezing every time he reaches his hips.

“You know, I thought I was being so subtle,” Noctis says, a little embarrassed. “And there you were - picking up on all of it.”

“I wasn’t entirely certain at the time. But you are…very obvious sometimes,” says Ignis, clearly trying to spare his pride. Though there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “More than you may realize.”

“How obvious?” he murmurs back, bringing up Ignis’ hand and kissing his fingertips - one after another, then back around again; wouldn’t want to miss one. “Tell me.”

“The night you read me the tabloid,” Ignis sighs into his hair, breath warm and fluttering the strands.

“Should’ve figured you’d notice - though you did stick around.”

“I only realized when I entered the room,” he has the grace to blush; with his sleep-tousled hair, he looks the way he usually does after sex. “I didn’t want to embarrass you by leaving.”

Noctis smiles and moves to Ignis’ ear, making sure to rub his beard against Ignis’ cheek in the way that he likes, and whispers, “You want to know what I was thinking about?”

He reaches down underneath the blanket to push his legs apart. He bypasses the heat between them, smoothing his palm along the flat of his stomach, the ridge of his hip bones, all the while shifting to resettle himself between his open, inviting thighs.

“What were you thinking about?” Ignis indulges, looking at him through his lashes, that pouting, sultry mouth parted in anticipation.  

Noctis slides down the length of his body, and just before his head disappears under the blanket, he quips with a wink, “Let me show you.”   

 

*

 

Noctis is rubbing his eyes at a particularly dry document on upcoming security details when he gets a firm knock at his office door. He bids his visitor entry, and is surprised to see Gladio. Weekday afternoons usually see him working with the Glaives, not prowling the offices.

“Hey,” greets his Shield, as he gives a wave. In one of his hands he’s holding the necks of two bottles of beer - Galahdi Pale Ale - and sets them onto Noctis’ desk with little fanfare, as though this were something they’d been doing all this time and Noctis just somehow forgot.

Noctis blinks and hits the sleep button on his tablet, “Bit of an early start, don’t you think?”

“Figured it’d loosen the tongue a little,” says Gladio, simply, as he pulls his chair closer to Noctis’ desk. He peels off his outer jacket and lays it on the chair’s back. “These things usually go smoother this way.”

“What’s ‘these things’ exactly?”

“Me,” Gladio points to himself before flicking his finger to Noctis’ direction. “Talking to you - about how you and Iggy are now Thing, and seeing if you’re as serious as you should be about it.”

He can’t bring himself to be surprised. Gladio was always so much more perceptive than people gave him credit for; he used to insist that he preferred it that way, because if people thought the Shield was just dumb muscle they’d be less likely to pay him any attention - supposedly, it made his job easier. And Noctis has known the man for most of his life, nearly as long as Ignis - there probably wasn’t a thing that Noctis could do without his Shield taking notice in some way. It was probably better they had this talk sooner rather than later.

Then, Noctis pauses when he realizes something.

“Are you giving me the shovel talk?” he chuckles, incredulous.

“You bet,” grins Gladio. His eyes are positively _twinkling_ ; for all his size and tattoos, Gladio never had a hard time putting people at ease, and Noctis figures it’s because his eyes are so warm. “Iris never dates - who knows when I’ll get to do this again.”

“Big brother instincts, huh?”

“It’s in the rulebook.”

“Right.”

“Hey, two of my best friends just started fucking,” he smirks. “Gotta make sure it goes smooth, or there’ll be some awkward dinner parties later if you two split.”

Gladio pauses - then seems to think of something: “You _are_ fucking right? Someone give you the talk yet, King Charmless?”

Noctis rolls his eyes and gives him the finger, “Hilarious.”

He grabs a bottle and pulls the cap off with his fancy letter opener - if Ignis were here, he could imagine the pinched look of disapproval thrown his way. It’s a testament to how gone he is over the man that the image makes him smile. Gladio waves off his offer of the opener and just pops his off with his bare hand, because of course he does.

“So,” starts Noctis, taking a drink. It’s nice and cold, and actually kind of hits the spot after a whole morning of squinting at his screen. “You’re don’t disapprove, then?”

“Nah,” Gladio braces his ankle on his other thigh, giving him a serene little smirk. “I know you two’ll do things right. It’s Ignis we’re talking about.”

Noctis just nods, brain swimming with all the possible directions this talk could go.

“When’s the resignation?”

It’s a testament to how sharp Gladio is - and how well he understands them both - that he knows that’s the case. Anyone else might have assumed that the two of them might entertain the idea of running around in some secret, sordid affair. It wouldn’t be unusual for royalty - not even unusual for some Lucis Caelums a few generations back. Regis’ fierce devotion to his wife even long after her passing had actually been on the unusual side. As a child Noctis had overheard more than his fair share of whispered speculations and idle fantasies of his father taking on another wife.  

“After the Summit,” Noctis sighs, running a hand tiredly through his hair as he takes another drink. “We kind of need him around for this.”

“Good call.”

“His.”

Gladio chuckles, “Always so prepared. Though he’s probably having the time of his life right now.”

“You know, I think I agree,” Noctis looks down into the neck of his beer. “I caught him smiling when he was reading over a file on Niflheim arrival processions. Kind of creepy.”

“Sounds like Iggy.”

Gladio doesn’t really entertain pauses in conversation, those silences for that for other people gives them the chance to think up their next move - he always goes in full swing, knowing his exact play. It’s something Noctis has always respected about his friend, because Noctis always tended to let the silences go on too _long_.

“Where you planning on telling me any time soon?”

“Sorry,” Noctis says, sheepish. “We’ve been so busy...and I wanted to take us all out when Prompto got back. Maybe bring it up then.”

Their return coincided with Prompto’s trip to Tenebrae, and they only just missed each other; he’d texted ahead of time that things between him and Ignis had gone well, but something like this deserved a face-to-face conversation. Prompto made him swear an oath to give him “all the juicy details” when he got back.  

Gladio seems to accept it, and nods, “Good to know. Didn’t put all that effort into getting you two alone just to be left in the dark, you know.”

Noctis pauses with his bottle halfway to his mouth, “So wait, you…?”

“One of you had to get his head out of his ass,” Gladio takes a sip and then shakes his head, looking every bit the put upon big brother. “Especially since _you_ started with the mooning too. Iggy was bad enough, but the two of you at once was just unbearable.”

“Wait,” Noctis blinks and sputters. “You...noticed? How - when -”

“At the pub, when Sania met the crew,” says Gladio, simply. “Though it wasn’t actually me who picked up on it, funny enough.”

“Really?”

“Nah, it was the missus,” he shrugs. “I had no idea.”

“Seriously? How’d she…”

Gladio waves, “She chalked it up to women’s intuition. Wasn’t about to argue.”

“Ah.”

Gladio hums in thought, “Was kind of obvious once she mentioned it though.”

“I didn’t realize it at the time.”

“That’s how it goes sometimes.”

“Still.”

Now that Gladio’s reasonably assured that they weren’t planning on keeping it from him, he seems more at ease, and allows for a lull in the conversation form, where they drink and let the information settle between them. He could dress it up how he liked, but Noctis gets the feeling that his friend just didn’t want to be left out. And really, he’s glad Gladio has his back in this.

And Ignis’ too, for Gladio breaks the silence: “Iggy’s been waiting a long time. Suppose I don’t need to tell you to be good to him, right?”

He’s searching Noctis’ face as he speaks.

Noctis shakes his head, finds heart warming at Gladio’s concern. He responds, as honestly as he can: “I don’t really know what I’m doing - but know that I’m doing my best.”

His friend smirks, standing to pick up his jacket and signalling his leave with a wave, “Good enough. Figured as much, but it’s nice to hear it.”

“You off?”

“Yep,” Gladio grabs both of their empty bottles and takes them with him as he makes his way to the entrance, as he’s pulling the door open he turns with a conspiratorial look. “Now it’s his turn for the talk - can’t have anyone breaking the king’s heart.”

Not that Ignis ever would and they both know it; Noctis rolls his eyes and gives him a wry grin.

“Thanks for watching out for my virtue, big guy.”

“Duty calls.”

Before he steps across the threshold, Gladio turns and asks, “Pub later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

 

*

 

This is new.

Since her death, he’s only ever felt Luna’s presence in the world’s quieter spaces - such as the reverent silence at her grave in Altissia, or sometimes on the rooftop garden at sunrise when the city hasn’t woken yet. Other times, in the dead of night when the dreams are so bad he can’t pull his body out of bed to see Ignis. But never, ever in dreams - where he can see her in front of him as though she never left at all.

Gods, he’s missed that smile, even for how little of it he’d seen before she had passed on.  

For a moment he wonders if it’s really her or if it was a true dream, a mirage of the mind. Something in the way her eyes rest on him, though, sets his heart at ease and his momentary fears disappear as though they were never there at all.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, breathy and elated. She’s in a white summer dress with her feet bare in the grass. Her hair is down too, feathering around her bare shoulders and fluttering in the mild breeze, relaxed in the way that she was never allowed to be in life.

“And you, Noctis,” Luna comes toward him and takes his hand. Bless this place, whatever it is, for he can feel her skin as sure as he could when she was alive - warm and soft. “Even better to see you looking so whole and hale.”

She reaches up rubs underneath his eyes with her thumbs, murmuring, “You’ve been sleeping better too, it seems.”

He nods, leaning his cheek into her palm and shutting his eyes for a moment to take it in. They’re in a misty field surrounded by sylleblossoms, and he can smell them sure as if they were real. There’s no horizon that he can see, just endless white and grey. It might have looked dreary, were it not for Luna’s soothing presence and the sound of her voice.

“This is new,” he murmurs into her palm. “I haven’t dreamed of you in a long time.”

She hums, moving her hands away to tuck them into the crook of his arm, gesturing ahead for them to walk, “Not a true dream, but rather a piece of the beyond. I thought it was time I visited - I’ve missed you very much.”

“I miss you too,” he says right back as they make their way through the field, parting the flowers and grass with their feet. “Every day.”

Luna nods with a smile, and says, “Know that I’m always watching over you, so don’t be lonely.”

“Some days are easier than others.”

“Getting easier, I hope?”

“Yeah,” he says, before admitting, “I can’t help but feel guilty about it, though.”

“Don’t,” she shakes her head and pats his hand. “Healing should bring peace, not sorrow.”  

“Feels wrong, though,” he can make out shapes in the distance - old things, cobbled together from pieces of history that never was: broken columns and weathered stone walls. “That I get to stick around, while you’re…”

It’s tough to say it aloud, still.

“Noctis,” she says, stopping and waiting until he turns his head to look at her before she continues, “Nothing has made me happier than knowing you still live, that you defied destiny to walk the among the living and be the great king I always knew you would be.”

Luna places a slender finger on his mouth when he tries to speak, and pushes on, “And more than that - it brings me joy to see you in love.”

Noctis looks down, eyes trailing down the delicate line of her bare arm, across her shoulders, and settles on the little charm she wears around her neck because he can’t quite bring himself to look into her eyes.

“I…” he doesn’t know how to ask the question that’s burning him up, so he barrells on it and hopes it doesn’t tumble too clumsily out of his throat; even after all this time, the little kid in him still wants to impress her. “I don’t want to betray what we had together, Luna.”

She blinks, and when she speaks her voice is astonished: “To see you taken care of could never be a betrayal.”

“But…”

“Hush, dear,” she taps his chin. When he finally looks at her face, she leans up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. “We had precious little time together, it is true - but know that I cherish every moment of it.”

“It wasn’t enough,” he says.

“No,” she agrees. “But it will do.”

He sighs - a shaking, fragile little breath - and when he speaks he shares a secret, “I never said it when I had the chance: I really did want to marry you.”

“Your feelings reached me,” she holds his hand in both of hers. “And...I felt the same.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t…” he wishes he were better at this, better at bringing the words out. And it feels like there’s water in his throat, dragging down and drowning every word he wants to tell her.

She looks down at their feet, and for a moment, that serene expression falters and some of her melancholy pushes through. Noctis brings his arms around her, holding her close and breathing her in. She smells of flowers and saltwater - like Tenebrae, and memories of sitting by sunny windows together as children.

“I am too,” she whispers against his chest, leaning her cheek on his collarbones. “But it wasn’t meant to be. And I have accepted it, because other things are.”

They pull apart, and her eyes are glassy as they look into his - not sad, exactly. Nostalgic, perhaps.

“In another life, in another time, there is a place for us,” she murmurs. “But in this one, you’ve found something to anchor you to the living world - and I do not begrudge you your choice, my love, for he is a very good one.”

It’s strange, how much he hadn’t realized that he wanted her blessing until he was given it. He feels a familiar prickle against his eyes and reaches up with his free hand to stop the tears before they can come. He’s cried in front of Luna so many times - as a child healing from injury and as young man who couldn’t save her - he doesn’t think he can bear the embarrassment of breaking down again.

She leans against his shoulder, rubbing his arm comfortingly, “I’ve got you, Noctis, I’ve got you.”

Like she always has.

He reaches up and brings her closer, kissing her hair and leaning their foreheads together, blocking out the misty, ethereal world they’ve found themselves in, and talks from his heart into the glittering lake of her eyes, “Thank you, Luna.”

She only smiles back, and he thinks she understands - the depth of his gratitude, how much more he doesn’t know how to say but really, truly feels.

They walk again, and Noctis feels clearer in the head, lighter in his chest.

“So,” he says. “Why now for a visit?”

“Your Shield gave you a talk,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I hadn’t wanted to miss my chance. And,” she looks up at him and something gleeful crosses her face as she takes him in, eyes crinkling at the edges and smiling bigger than he’s ever seen, almost girlish rather than poised. The _person_ under the Oracle. “You really do look well, Noctis. Happier than I’ve ever gotten to see. I wanted to witness it up close.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Me as well,” she nods. “And, it isn’t fair that everyone else gets to give you the - what is it called, ‘shovel talk’? - and I couldn’t.”

He sputters, “ _You_? Really?”

“Am I not also one of your dear friends?” she asks, feigning offence. “I never had the experience myself - I wanted to try my hand at it.”

“Shovel talks usually involve more threats of violence.”

“Oh dear, how barbaric,” she tuts. “I would never wish violence upon Ignis; he seems a very good man.”

Noctis laughs, “The best.”

“I suppose I should do my duty, however,” she says, before clearing her throat and putting on her sternest voice: “Very well then - should he ever hurt you, I shall enact holy retribution on your behalf.”

They both chuckle at that, bumping their heads together and nearly stumbling their way through the grass.

“That’s pretty unlikely,” he chuckles, slightly shy. It still feels strange, talking about Ignis this way to someone else. It’s a reminder that what they haven’t doesn’t just exist in their own little world - that it’s something they’ll share with everyone else, sooner or later. He couldn’t be more happy with it, even if brings a flush to his face. Luna watches his cheeks redden with a pleased little smile. “Ignis is...Ignis. I don’t think there’s a word out there for how loyal he is…”

Luna leans her head against his shoulder, “I am grateful to him, Noctis, for there are so few I could imagine who could love you like you deserve.”

He tightens his fingers over hers and tells her, “Same to you.”

They keep walking a few more paces, passing a row of broken white columns and half-destroyed statues. After a long stretch of silence she laughs as she seems to think of something, “Though, should the unlikely ever occur, I truly may have to schedule a haunting or two.”

“Luna,” he chokes. “That’s _morbid_.”

She pats his hand, eyes glittering with amusement: “There’s very little to do in the afterlife, Noctis - grant me this bit of humour, won’t you?”

They share a laugh, and keep on walking until he wakes to a sunlit bedroom and the fading smell of flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: i may, or may not, be planning a multi-chapter fic of the peanut gallery in the afterlife watching these two fools get together and pulling their hair at the drama tbh


	15. Chapter Fifteen - Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of something new.

“ _It’s the first day of Peace Summit, and the royal retinue is awaiting the arrival of the first guest with King Noctis himself -_ ”

“ _\- you’re watching Insomnia News Network and we are currently awaiting the arrival of Her Radiance Sirris Aldercapt -_ ”

“ _...between the Kingdom of Lucis, the Empire of Niflheim, the Accordo Protectorate, and the Kingdom of Tenebrae…_ ”

“ _\- a most auspicious occasion, very likely the most important of King Noctis’ reign -_ ”

“ _\- waiting with bated breath for the formal end to the war, generations after it began -_ ”

“ _...the first time that King Regent Ravus Nox Fleuret has set foot in Lucis since the defeat of the Scourge…_ ”

Even so many paces away from the dividing line where the press have their cameras trained on them, the sound of them is enough to fray Noctis’ nerves. Rationally, he knows there’s nothing to worry about - he’s met all of the leaders of the new world, and every single one of them is as eager for the dissolution of conflict and a fresh start as Lucis is - but the formality of it all, along with the media storm, brings him right back to the feeling of being a young man trying to navigate life with every single eye in the nation trained on him, shoulders shaking with the weight of everyone’s expectations. Now, he thinks he hadn’t given his father enough credit for weathering it all on his own for so many years.

Noctis stands at the head of the welcoming procession, dressed in his formal raiment and watching the Citadel square begin filling with cars. Ignis stands at his side and just half a step behind, a tall, comforting pillar of warmth.    

The first to arrive is Niflheim’s newly ascended Empress - Sirris Aldercapt, a granddaughter of Iedolas from a lesser branch of the family. Nearly a head taller than Noctis, Sirris is a willowy, pale woman on the cusp of middle age. As she comes closer - with her long, bone-white robes trailing behind her like a funeral shroud - he can see the faded, jagged scar across her jugular peeking from her tall collar. In the few times they’d met he never asked about it, but she’d caught his staring and only said, with a small smile, “politics in Niflheim are a harsher breed than you may be used to.”

She and her retinue come to a stop before him and drop to a polite bow - which he returns, before taking her hand to press a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles.

“I understand that congratulations are in order,” says Noctis, letting go and gesturing to her belly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says, with an incline of her head. Noctis knows she isn’t married - but he gets it. An heirless woman on the throne of the largest empire in the lands needs to secure her place as quickly as possible. She has his sympathies. The line of Caelum is rooted into the land of Lucis by its blood - the same is not true of Niflheim, and her claim to the throne is more precarious than Noctis could ever imagine.

She passes by and comes to a stop next to him to await the next car, the delegation from Accordo.

Durante Bello is the oldest of them all, and once joked that he’ll be phased out of the new era’s leadership in no time. A charming man with a significantly kinder disposition than his predecessor, he’d been unanimously elected to Accordo’s office only weeks after the new dawn. As he and Noctis shake hands, the First Secretary smooths back his greying hair and immediately asks about the hors d'oeuvres at the party later with a cheeky grin - to which Noctis chuckles and promises he wont be disappointed; Ignis preens beside him, having overseen the menu himself.   

“Do let me know if you feel up to another vacation, Majesty,” quips Durante with a prideful tug of his tasteful navy suit jacket. The golden pin he wears of Leviathan winks in the low light. “Litore barely breaches the splendor that Accordo can offer, you realize.”

Noctis nods with a smile and a glance to Ignis, who stands at his side, “Believe me, I’m considering it.”

He adds, “I had the time of my life - please, pass on my greetings to Mayor Uccello, won’t you?”

Bello guffaws and nods, before moving along to greet the other dignitaries.

The last car, a gleaming white limousine, comes to a stop. An attendant rushes to open the door, and out steps Ravus Nox Fleuret. He’s dressed in traditional Tenebraen royal garb - a dazzling combination of silken fabrics in sylleblossom blue, and golden epaulets reminiscent of feathers - though quite simplified and streamlined from what Noctis remembers of the queen having worn when he visited as a child. He imagines that Ravus’ military sensibilities would’ve chafed in the more elaborate gowns and jewellery expected of Tenebraen royals, and mentally extends his sympathies.

He looks good, though - healthier, a far cry from the gaunt warrior that greeted him on these very steps on that fateful night. Noctis wonders how much of it is Prompto’s influence.

Ravus comes up the steps and bends into a deep bow, which Noctis returns readily.

“It’s good to see you again, Ravus,” says Noctis, forgoing the usual etiquette. They’ve fought and shed blood together, side-by-side against the greatest threat to their world - what room is there for arbitrary formalities, in the face of that?

It’s a sentiment Ravus shares, because his ever-downturned mouth quirks up into a small smile as he nods, “Same to you, Noctis. You look well,” looking to Ignis at Noctis’ side, he adds, “As do you, Scientia.”

Ignis inclines his head, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Ravus twitches a little that, clearly no longer used to royal address. Despite having been a prince in his own right, Noctis imagines that his path would have always been in the military regardless; Luna had been the heir apparent anyway, as was custom in Tenebrae. Now, he wonders if Ravus has been pestered about having female heirs yet - he reminds himself to ask Prompto later. Perhaps he and Ravus can even bond over it.

“You’re looking well yourself,” says Noctis. “Is it the kingship?”

“Not so,” Ravus says - far too honest than formality would usually allow, but no one is listening but them. But then, something very gentle settles on Ravus’ face and he murmurs, “You keep very good company, Your Majesty.”

They both look over to where Prompto is talking animatedly with some of the officials from Tenebrae, most of whom he likely already knows personally.

Noctis still isn’t sure that they’ll ever be friends, not in the way of people chatting casually over coffee or texting each other in their off times, but as Ravus gives him a polite parting bow and makes his way over to where Prompto is standing, Noctis thinks things are looking up between them.

The four delegations gather themselves and make their way into the Citadel, with the roar of the crowd behind him as they do.

 

*

 

After the signing - which went off without a hitch - there’s a formal reception.

In full, extravagant fashion, it takes place on the roof of one of the hotel resorts that Noctis technically owns. It was left remarkably intact despite the destruction from Niflheim’s invasion and the subsequent daemon takeover, and he remembers many formal parties held on this very spot in his youth.

After greeting the seemingly never ending line of dignitaries for the second time that day, Noctis is sure he’s going to throw himself off the roof. Thankfully Ignis senses his eroding calm and places a steady, warm hand at his back, just under his shoulder blades and rubs soothingly. Only for a moment, because it would be inappropriate to get handsy with the king in public. Even if said king would be totally, completely okay with it.

“I got most of the protocol down,” Noctis says quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. “...I think.”

“You did very well, especially for your first function this large,” Ignis responds, tipping a flute of champagne up to his lips. “And I daresay even the sourest of the elite would forgive the _saviour to the star_ any minor slip-ups.”

They both chuckle, and make their way over to a big, glass display at the back of the floor. It’s a large and ostentatious aquarium, housing a menagerie of exotic fish swimming around a statue of silver and gold, and a portrait of a woman at its center - perhaps a forgotten goddess, or the artist’s ethereal muse. Frankly, Noctis thinks the whole thing is gaudy. It’s a few paces away from the heart of the party though, so Noctis will take a little hovering around if it means a few moments to himself and Ignis. He doesn’t quite have the gift of socializing that dad did, despite trying to work up to it. He hopes no one thinks he’s being antisocial.     

Ignis looks handsome tonight, resplendent in his formal robes - uniform of the royal advisor. As the Hand of the King, he gets to be garbed in more than just a fancy suit or Kingsglaive attire: a long black robe with a strong, austere silhouette, straight across the shoulders and accented in gold. The high collar hugs the long, slender line of this throat and the contrast of it against his fair colouring is striking under the moonlight. There’s virtually no skin showing and while normally Noctis would find that a crying shame, the crisp leather gloves in the ensemble distract him plenty enough. As a child, he’d never thought twice about the uniform - but the sight of it on his own advisor is altogether a different beast.

He’d gotten to watch Ignis dress himself earlier in the evening and now, he’s anticipating peeling him out of all those layers again later when they’re alone.  

“Is something the matter, Your Majesty?” Ignis notices him staring and quirks a well-groomed brow in his direction.

“No,” he shakes his head, but gives him a playful grin. “Just checking you out. You look really good, Iggy.”

“You’re being very obvious.”

“I could be more obvious, if you like.”

“Later, perhaps, when the eyes of every leader on the continent isn’t fixed on us.”

“You don’t think that’s kind of hot?”

“ _Majesty_.”

Noctis chuckles, enjoying the faint blush that sweeps across Ignis’ cheeks; hard to see in the low light, but by now Noctis knows what to look for. He wishes he could just get up on the tips of his toes to kiss the blush out of hiding, but they’re not there yet. For now, this thing between them is still only theirs alone, so he enjoys it for the tender, private escape that it is.

Still though, this will be the one and only time he will get see Ignis garbed in his robes before he resigns. He keeps his eyes all over him, locking the sight away in to memory.

They stand, side-by-side, looking over the roof and into their beautiful city. Confident that no one is looking their way Ignis takes Noctis’ hand, stroking his thumb along his knuckles, and places a swift kiss at the tips of his fingers. And when Noctis looks over at him, a blush on his cheeks, Ignis lets his fingers dip quickly, shallowly, into the heat of his mouth - gaze full of promise. Quick as it all began, he gently releases Noctis’ hand and nods his head.

“Let us resume the party, my king,” he says, voice low. Just before he walks away, he leans over to Noctis’ ear and murmurs, “and to answer your question - yes, I do.”

 

*

 

Winter is upon them, soon enough.

Insomnia doesn’t see much snow, not like Niflheim, but the chill is always sharp and catches people off guard. For many, it also brings lethargy and a touch of sadness.

Not for Ignis. He enjoys the cool air, and likes the sight of the Insomnia’s steel and black buildings against the grey sky - like a photograph in monochrome. Sharp, straight lines and bold shadows. There’s poetry in the straightforward that most don’t appreciate. He remembers the discussions he and Gladio used to have about their opposing preferences: Gladio’s heart was in the wilderness, of nature untamed, where wildness was the way. The beating heat of the sun, the gnarled roots of trees, the anticipation of game darting through the bushes.

Ignis lived for the city - any city, any place where people carved their place in the world by sheer will. He loved looking at structures birthed by human ingenuity: tall or short, wide or thin, straight or curved. Insomnia, though, would always be his favourite - no other city could be so large and busy and yet, so soulful and enigmatic all at once.

As he makes his way through the halls of the Citadel and to his office - his _old_ office, technically - he drinks in the sight of the black marble walls and gold accents with pride. The next time he sees them, he might be a civilian.

It had been with a heavy heart that he’d tendered his resignation weeks ago, to the astonishment of every member of the staff as well as the media. The news had sent the council into an uproar, most of the command begging him to reconsider. A compromise had eventually been settled on - he would stay on until a suitable replacement could be found, who Ignis would vet and could personally assure the quality of. It was all only technicalities, of course; he has not been a part of any official duties for a while now, and his office sees less use with every passing day.

Still, until the papers are fully signed and the ink has dried, he will relish as much of this as he can.

He and Noctis still have not made their relationship public - both because of his remaining duties, and because Noctis himself had pulled him aside and requested that they wait.

“For what?” asked Ignis, a touch shocked.

Noctis had only smiled - one of his playful, secretive ones that hooded his eyes - and said, “The right moment.”

That had been that. Ignis hadn’t questioned it, more than willing to go at it at Noctis’ pace. The closest among them have been made aware, given their blessings - everything else was just a matter of time.

As he comes to his desk he sees a small bundle of mail. Most are clearly important missives and documents, with wax seals or golden bands lining the expensive paper of the envelopes. He will get to them later, because there is a particular envelope that catches his eye - cream coloured and simple, with a stamp from Accordo and an address from Litore. Ignis takes a seat on his chair, opening it to find a postcard. Its front is a lovely watercolour depiction of Litore’s beach, painting with a loose flowing hand and in lush, saturated colours. Looking at it, he can almost feel the taste of _Ambrosia_ on his tongue and the sun on his skin.

He turns it around, and reads the message written in blue ink and Noctis’ familiar penmanship:

 

_Ignis,_

 

_I’ve never been good with talking about my feelings. Not out loud, anyway._

_So, I figured I’d write it down._

 

_But there’s a million things I could write to tell you how I feel, and I don’t know where to start:_

_That you’re cute when you’re embarrassed._

_That you’re bossy sometimes, and I kind of love it._

_That you’re the one I look to, when I feel lost._

_That I want to start all my days after this one waking up with you right next to me._

 

_But I can’t choose, and there’s only one thing that will mean it all, anyway._

_So Iggy -_

 

_Marry me?_

 

_Yours,_

_Noctis._

_(On the best day of his life)_

 

“Oh, Noct,” he breathes, falling back against his chair. It feels as though all the strength has left his body, and whatever is left is scarcely enough to keep him upright. With a shaking hand, he takes off his glasses and places them gingerly onto his desk.

It’s lucky he’s alone, for tears are so very undignified, even the joyful ones.

A knock sounds at his door, right before it opens and Noctis comes walking in. He has his hands in his pockets and is dressed down to his shirtsleeves, jacket slung over the crook of his arm. Even after all this time, the sight of him still makes Ignis breathless - as though beauty never had meaning until Noctis came into the world to give it definition.

“Saw it was mail day,” says Noctis in that gentle, boyish voice of his. His mouth is smiling in that mysterious - almost coquettish - way that never fails to make Ignis feel lightheaded with longing. “Get anything good?”

Ignis laughs, watery, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. He waves the postcard and he can’t quite keep the quavering out of his voice when he responds, “I think you’ve made a right mess of me, dear.”

“That a yes?” asks his king, his lover, his _everything_.

As though he ever needed to ask anything from Ignis, as though that barest hint of hesitation even remotely belongs on that treasured face.

“For you,” murmurs Ignis. “My answer is always yes.”

Noctis’ shoulders lose that minute tightness, not perceivable to anyone who doesn’t know him well, and his smile turns radiant.

“Your bottom drawer,” Noctis says, shuffling on his feet. “Look inside.”

Ignis blinks, and sets the postcard down and pushes his seat back to bend down. When he pulls the drawer open he sees it - the tiny black box, so specific in shape and size that he knows what is in it immediately. He picks it up and places it gingerly on his desk, as though it were made of glass. Looking up, he sees Noctis smiling at him and watching expectantly.

 Lucian white gold, simple in design - meant for someone who works a lot with his hands. A lovely little thing; classic, elegant, and expertly made. He plucks it from its cushion and the light from his lamp catches on the inscription on the inside of the band: “my firelight”.

Noctis comes around the desk to stand in front of him, setting his jacket down onto the desk as he murmurs, “It’s lightweight - and it won’t get in the way when you’re sparring or cooking.”

He takes it from Ignis’ fingers and stills the tremors in Ignis’ hand with his both of his own, “You’re always the one doing everything - always the one taking care of me,” he says, and Ignis hears the tightness in his throat. “So this time...let me do it for you.”

He slips it onto Ignis’ finger in a gentle glide - of course, it fits perfectly, and Ignis makes a mental note to ask how he managed to guess Ignis’ size later, when he’s gotten his bearings and feels less like he’s about to fall through the floor.

Ignis turns his palm around to hold onto Noctis’ hand, gripping tight. His other hand reaches up to wipe at his eyes again, determined not to fall apart.

“You are sure?” asks Ignis, from a place deep inside himself that isn’t certain that any of this is real. “I never...I would never have asked…”

Noctis carefully lets go of Ignis’ hand and picks up the copy of “Into the Dark We Go” from where it sits on his desk, flipping over to Ignis’ chapter. He hadn’t even gone to check for the page number, and something inside Ignis warms at the thought that Noctis now knows it by heart.

“You asked me a long time ago to place my heart next to yours,” he says, plucking the postcard from where Ignis had left it, and tucks it in front of the page where Ignis’ dedication shouts its love for him in bold ink. Bolder than Ignis had ever intended - at nineteen, so lost and tender in love, writing by lamplight until his fingertips had been sore, pouring his feelings out onto the page because it had been almost too much to keep inside himself. “So here I am - sorry it took me so long.”

Noctis snaps the book closed, and when he leans down to place it back on the desk he also steals a kiss, chaste and reverent.

Noctis leans his head on Ignis’ shoulder and murmurs into the bend of his neck, voice muffled by his shirt, “I know it’s a little soon, and we can wait if you want. I just...needed to say it.”

Was it too soon? Ignis doesn’t rightly know - he’s been in love so long he doesn’t remember a time he wasn’t, doesn’t remember when this feeling wasn’t writ into his very bones and his blood.

He reaches up to rub at Noctis’ scalp in the way he likes, and gets a little rumbling purr for his efforts. “I am elated that you did,” he says, kissing his hair - he adores that peculiar shade, like the ocean at night, and now he will get to watch it grey with time.

A friend had asked him once if he’d ever beheld his heart in his hands, looked upon its face and saw it looking back at him. He hadn’t, of course, and never imagined he would get the chance. Now, he can not imagine what he’d do without the sight of it.

His king pulls back to kiss him on the mouth, and Ignis momentarily forgets the question at that delightful feel of the beard against his face; hands reach up to cup his jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones as a slick mouth sucks on his lower lip. It would be terribly ill-advised to fall into each other in his office, but each stroke of Noctis’ tongue against his tears down a little more of his will with it.

Finally though, they pull away from each other to breathe, and Noctis grins, “Head’s up Iggy - I’m _absolutely_ going to carry you bridal style across the threshold.”

They both break down in laughter, tears in their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well - this is it! the sappiest of romances! 
> 
> Thank you so much to the folks who kept up with the fic, who took the time to comment - y'all really kept me going. and to everyone to kudos'd, bookmarked, or even just read and enjoyed the ride! i hope i made someone's day a wee bit lighter. 
> 
> i guess it's plug time, right?  
> i'm on twitter @ https://twitter.com/SoftRegard - come chat with me if you like!!  
> i've also got a ko-fi @ https://ko-fi.com/softregard - if anybody wants to get me an "ebony" :P! 
> 
> once again - thanks for reading <3


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